


Past Damages

by CornishKid (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Friends to Lovers, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Infidelity, M/M, Past Character Death, Post-Season/Series 03, Torture, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Waterboarding, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-02-26 20:44:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2665703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/CornishKid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John receives devastating news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Phone Call

The call comes while they're at a crime scene. Less than a week after Sherlock's near exile, Lestrade has him back in the field. The whole country is still in a tizzy about the Moriarty mess, but Mycroft had explained the event to a handful of people (Sherlock, John, Mary, and their favorite DI from Scotland Yard). Moriarty's return was a hoax, a ploy to keep Sherlock from leaving British soil. Sherlock was effectively pardoned, under the condition that he would follow whatever "leads" the British Secret Service were able to uncover regarding Moriarty's return -- leads that would be strategically planted by Mycroft's team. As long as the evidence continued to pour in, Sherlock would be safe.

This left Sherlock free to resume his previous life... or what was left of it after the turmoil that had begun, arguably, the moment he stepped from the roof of St. Bart's hospital. John had lived with him at Baker Street during "The Great Silence" between the newlywed Watsons, but had returned to Mary after the Christmas reunion. Sherlock was once again on his own at 221b, a fact that disturbed him more than it ought to have. While John had not been in the best of moods during his short stay, Sherlock had grown accustomed to pretending things were normal between him and his blogger -- that the past two years hadn't happened. John's absence now brought that fantasy to a crumbling halt.

He's hardly seen John since the Moriarty broadcast. The doctor is busy making things right with Mary and planning for the baby, Sherlock assumes bitterly. Today, however, Lestrade has called him in to investigate a triple homicide. John responds immediately with a,  _Yes_ , when Sherlock texts him the address and requests his help. They meet at the crime scene (penthouse apartment near Piccadilly). John greets Sherlock with a tired grin. _  
_

"Hello," he says.

Sherlock feels something in his chest tighten as he takes in the bags under John's eyes and his clenched jaw (despite the smile he's flashing at Sherlock.) He hasn't been sleeping well, and he's still frustrated with Mary.

"How are things?" Sherlock asks, more for the sake of conversation with John than a need to know (he's already deduced everything of importance.)

"Fine," John says. "We had another scan yesterday -- everything's progressing well. The doctor thinks it'll be early -- another month or so."

"Ah," Sherlock replies. "Good."

"Shall we?"

Sherlock leads John into the suite, where Lestrade is waiting.

"It looks like a murder-suicide," says Lestrade.

"Except?" Sherlock presses.

"Except the bloke who would have committed suicide would have had to have stabbed himself in the heart with a knife."

"That's not easy to do," John remarks.

"Not at all," Sherlock mutters, his eyes already darting around the room for clues.

He's kneeling in front of the second body, a twenty-year old woman, when John's phone goes off.

"Hello?" John says as he answers. "Yeah -- it's not a great time -- Clara?"

Sherlock feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as his attention is suddenly fully attuned to the conversation that John is having. He looks up over his magnifying glass to watch the doctor -- whose brow has knitted together in a befuddled expression.

"Slow down, Clara," he says, "what's going on?"

John makes his way from the room then, muttering apologies to officers as he goes. Sherlock longs to follow him out into the hall -- something is wrong. Clara has never called John directly, not even before her and Harry started seeing one another again. She always communicates with him through Harry. Sherlock realizes with a pang that he hasn't met either of these people. Another way his and John's lives have grown more separate over the years.

"Sherlock," Lestrade asks, appearing over Sherlock's shoulder, "what have you got?"

"The man was having an affair with both women," Sherlock rattles off distractedly. "They arranged to meet him here and murdered him together -- tried to make it look like suicide. Then they turned on one another."

"So we're not looking for a fourth culprit?"

"Unlikely," says Sherlock. He unsnaps the latex gloves from his hand. "I trust you can take it from here."

He barely hears Lestrade's expression of thanks as he makes his way from the room in search of John. It takes a surprisingly long time to find him (by Sherlock's standards) in the penthouse's guest bathroom. He hears John's low voice drifting through the door, which is locked.

"John?" Sherlock calls quietly as he knocks on the paneling. "Are you alright?"

"I'll be there in a minute," John says, his voice tight.

Sherlock steps away from the door -- removing the temptation to eavesdrop. John obviously wants a moment of privacy. Sherlock suppresses his own curiosity and concern to grant him that.

It's forty-five seconds later when John opens the door. There's a pinched look around his eyes that sets Sherlock's teeth on edge. 

"Sorry," John apologizes quietly. "What's going on with the case?"

"Solved it," Sherlock tells him.

"Ah."

John had obviously been hoping for a distraction. At his crestfallen look, Sherlock decides it's an appropriate time to play the concerned friend.

"What's wrong?"

John's nose twitches. A sign of agitation that Sherlock has become very familiar with over the years.

"Harry's in the hospital," he says. "Having surgery... she vomited a lot of blood and then passed out in the bathroom. Clara found her."

Sherlock blinks several times. He knows he should be offering John comfort. He  _wants_ to offer John comfort. But he's at a loss as to knowing how.

"I should go see her," John continues. "She's at St. Ann's --"

"Lestrade can give us a ride," Sherlock says at once. "It'll be faster than taking the tube --"

John nods once. He doesn't comment on the fact that Sherlock has just invited himself along, which Sherlock takes to mean acquiescence. They make their way back to the bedroom together, and Sherlock explains the situation to Lestrade while John stands in the doorway, worrying the inside of his cheek between his teeth. Lestrade agrees right away, and hands control of the scene over to Donovan.

It's a quiet ride through London. Lestrade offers to put the siren on, but John refuses him. It'll be hours yet before the doctors know anything about Harry's condition, he says. Sherlock sees through this facade immediately -- John is quietly relishing these last few moments of denial before he's faced with the reality of his very ill sister, a sister he might be losing at any moment.

During the ride, Sherlock scavenges the recesses of his Mind Palace, looking through all pieces of information he's picked up about Harry Watson. He knows disappointingly little -- nowhere near as much as he'd like in preparation for this visit with John. But he sifts through everything nonetheless, hoping he'll find something that'll indicate how he might be able to help John through this situation. By her symptoms and her drinking history, she's likely suffering from cirrhosis of the liver. Fatal, except in the event of a transplant. John will have undoubtedly worked this out already, along with the fact that Harry will be incredibly low priority on the transplant list due to her alcoholism. Her only hope for survival is a voluntary donor.

Sherlock wonders how much of this is occurring to John at the moment. It's hard to tell -- John's sitting beside him in the back seat of Lestrade's squad car, his face blank. The only indicator of his anxiety is the clenching and unclenching of his left fist -- the tremor.

Sherlock doesn't know what possesses him to do it -- he reaches out and clasps John's trembling hand in his own.

John stiffens beside him, but does not look at Sherlock. After a long moment (Sherlock realizes he's holding his breath), John's fist relaxes, and he allows Sherlock to thread their fingers together and give John's hand an encouraging squeeze.

They do not let go until they arrive in the hospital's parking lot.

* * *

 

They find Harry's floor quickly. Clara is waiting for them -- she embraces John as soon as he enters the waiting room. Sherlock tries his best not to deduce her. It feels like an invasion of privacy to do so as he observes this woman and her brother-in-law share their anxiety and anguish, but he cannot stop his brain from interpreting the signs.

_Mid-forties, hard-etched crow's feet. Experienced much joy in her lifetime, though deep frown lines more recently formed indicate hardships in the last ten years. Complies with information already known about relationship with Harry Watson. Callouses on fingers -- she plays an instrument (viola... no, muscular pattern of back and shoulders says cello). There are marker stains on her hands as well. She works with children. Primary school teacher, also runs music lessons on the side._

"Clara," says John as he pulls away, "this is Sherlock."

Clara turns to face him, then. Her eyes sweep over him once before she hugs him, too, ignoring his outstretched hand.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes," she mutters into his coat.

"Likewise," Sherlock replies. He awkwardly pats her on the back. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees the corners of John's mouth twitch upwards into a smirk.

Lestrade, who had followed them into the waiting room, introduces himself as well. He promises to wait with them until they hear news.

"I should probably call Mary," John announces.

Sherlock feels a twinge of annoyance at this. He's not sure if it's because John's calling  _Mary,_ or if it's because he's going to be leaving him alone in this situation for any amount time. It's probably a combination of both, he muses.

John isn't gone for long, in the end. He returns within three minutes and announces that Mary's on her way. Sherlock feels another spasm of irritation pierce low in his gut, but he says nothing. This is about John, not about him.

John and Clara chat for a while, catching up. Both of them speak with tight, low voices. Sherlock hangs on their every word, storing away information about John's family life that might be useful for him to know later. Lestrade texts away on his mobile for a while and then leaves to grab coffee and food from the canteen.

A surgeon comes about half an hour into their wait. John and Clara jump to their feet; Sherlock remains seated, but stiffens in his chair.

The surgeon explains that Harry had experienced severe hemorrhaging in her esophagus and stomach, caused by hypertension -- blockage of blood flow through Harry's liver. They need to run more tests once Harry is out of surgery, the surgeon says, but he does indicate his suspicion of cirrhosis. John's expression indicates he understands immediately, but Clara requires more explanation.

"Is this because of the drinking?" she asks quietly.

The surgeon apologizes -- he has to return to surgery. John assures Clara that he can explain everything to her, and ushers her back into their seats.

Sherlock listens as John talks, and watches as Clara's eyes fill with tears.

"She was doing so much better," Clara croaks. "She's been sober for almost a year -- she's been going to meetings every week."

"I know, Clara," says John. "The damage was probably already done... she drank for so long..."

Clara begins sobbing. John wraps his arm around her and pulls her into his shoulder. His face is still expressionless when he looks up to meet Sherlock's eyes... Sherlock can see anger and sorrow swimming just beneath the surface of that stony expression. He wants to pull John away into a private space so that the doctor can let everything release. He shouldn't have to be so held together right now, not even for Clara's sake.

Mary finds them then -- she waddles over to their spot from the nurses station and sits next to John without even looking at Sherlock. Now he feels even more out of place.

Clara sniffs several times before extracting herself from John's jumper.

"M-Mary," she stutters. "How are y-you?"

"Just fine, Clara," says Mary in a soothing tone.

"How's the b-baby?"

"Growing every day."

Sherlock barely manages to suppress an eye roll. If there's one thing he can't stand, it's small talk. John shoots a warning glare in his direction before filling Mary in on the situation. Clara, to Sherlock's relief, does not start crying again. She merely stares vacantly across the waiting room.

Lestrade returns after another ten minutes, coffees in hand for himself, John, Clara, and Sherlock. He apologizes that he didn't think to grab one for Mary. She assuages him, pointing out that she's unable to have caffeine anyway in her condition. Lestrade inserts himself easily into their quiet conversation, and Sherlock finds himself having gone from third, to fourth, to fifth wheel in less than twenty minutes.

The waiting room empties and fills in waves over the next couple of hours. Outside the windows, Sherlock watches as the sky begins to darken. Clara drifts off into an uneasy-looking sleep. John drapes his coat over her as she continues to rest her head on his shoulder. Mary and Lestrade go to fetch them all some food. Sherlock resists the urge to look through cold case files on his phone. That would be 'a bit not good,' especially since he was supposed to be supporting John.

It's seven o'clock when the surgeon returns to tell them that Harry has made it through surgery, and they can go to see her. Clara jumps to her feet -- she and John follow the surgeon down the hall. Sherlock makes to follow, but Lestrade grabs him gently by the shoulder.

"Best let family go," he says, almost apologetically.

Sherlock nods once, and turns his head to watch John and Clara disappear. Mary, in her red coat, is rushing after them to keep up. As soon as she finds herself by John's side, she weaves her hand through his. Sherlock feels a weight drop in his stomach as they turn the corner and disappear from his sight.


	2. Slides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry receives an official prognosis.

Molly doesn't ask him about the blood slides, which Sherlock is immensely grateful for. He's switching between three different samples at the moment -- John's, Harry's, and Clara's. John's sample was easy enough to come by; Sherlock had several vials left over from John's missed Wednesday. Harry's and Clara's were more difficult -- he'd lucked out when Clara had cut herself on the corner of one of the medical forms, after which he'd quickly volunteered to fetch her a bandage. John had noticed Sherlock pocketing the used cotton swab, and it was a testament to how much he had on his mind that he hadn't said anything. To get Harry's, Sherlock had bribed one of the nurses.

Which leaves him now hunched over his microscope in the chemistry lab of Bart's, flicking between these three sides in a strangely detached manner -- strange, because he is literally examining the DNA of each of these individuals, and yet they could belong to anybody... to random strangers. That's what he forces himself to think as he flickers from side to side. These are not people that he knows. They are random strangers. But this doesn't prevent him from feeling a pang as he reads out the results of the tests.

Harry's been in the hospital for several days now while the doctors have run her through various tests and procedures. No official diagnosis has been made, but Sherlock knows that the news (once it comes) will not be good. John, a medical man, continues to ignore the gravity of the situation as well. Every time Sherlock has broached him on the subject, he responds with, "Let's wait and see what her doctors say."

Sherlock hates waiting. As soon as he had gathered all the necessary samples, he had marched off to Bart's without telling John about his plan.

Harry will need a liver transplant; Sherlock deduced this in the taxi ride to the hospital. She'll also be too far down on the wait-list to receive a random liver in time to save her life, so she'll need a living, voluntary donor. A donor who matches her blood type, who is between the ages of eighteen and fifty-five, and is in excellent health.

Harry's blood type is O.

John's is B.

Clara's, AB.

Neither John nor Clara qualify as a viable donor. Both will volunteer, of course. Sherlock wonders if John has already worked out this part of the equation for himself. He'll know his own blood type from being in the army... he might not know Harry's yet. He certainly won't know Clara's.

Sherlock sighs. At last, Molly (who Sherlock had almost forgotten is in the room) asks, "Is everything okay?"

Sherlock decides to reply honestly.

"No."

* * *

 

John phones him when he's already on the way back to the hospital.

"They diagnosed her," he says. Sherlock can hear his frown over the line. "Cirrhosis. They've given her three months unless they find a suitable donor."

Sherlock has seen this coming.

"How far down on the transplant list is she?" he asks.

"You already know the answer to that," John mutters.

Sherlock does. Not good, then.

"On top of everything else," John continues, "She's type O --"

"That's not terrible," Sherlock encourages. "Thirty-seven percent of the population has got --"

"O negative."

"Ah."  Sherlock had completely forgotten about the Rh factor. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

"Yeah," says John. "So that's what, eight percent?"

Sherlock doesn't reply. John sighs.

"I need to get out of this place," he says quietly.

"I'm already on my way," Sherlock tells him.

* * *

 "Eight percent," John mutters, taking a long drag of his coffee. The bags under his eyes seem much darker than the last time Sherlock observed them. "Eight percent of people, and she's got to wait for about fifty of those poor sods to keel over before three months are up --"

They're sitting in Reagent's Park, not far from the flat at Baker Street. Sherlock is reminded of a long forgotten era when John would drag him out of the flat on weekends for a cup of coffee and a stroll through the neighborhood. He'd do that when Sherlock was in a strop -- claimed the fresh air helped to clear Sherlock's moods. Sherlock would pretend it didn't, but he secretly considered those times to be his favorite memories from John's days at Baker Street.

It seemed appropriate that, when John needed time away from the hospital, Sherlock should bring him to this place.

"A donor could come forward," Sherlock says encouragingly. He knows that's what he's supposed to say in this situation, but his words feel empty.

"I can't," John says bitterly. "Neither can Clara... but you already know that, don't you?"

John's fixing Sherlock with an almost amused stare. Sherlock blanches.

"I --" he starts.

"I figured it out when you offered to clean up Clara's paper cut," John explains. He smirks for a split second. "I eventually tracked down the nurse you bribed for Harry's. Didn't take me long to put two and two together."

"I --" Sherlock is at a loss for how to explain himself. "I couldn't -- I can't just do  _nothing_."

"'s okay," John mutters. "Look, I appreciate you being around. I know you're crap at this -- comfort... thing..."

Sherlock is, which is why he's at a loss for how to respond to that comment.

"It means a lot to me," John continues. He's looking directly into Sherlock's eyes now. Sherlock is very careful not to blink; like a predator who tries not to frighten it's prey, he is afraid any sudden movement will cause John to turn away. He wishes he could be locked under John's warm stare forever... then he immediately wonders where such a thought came from.

"Isn't this what friends do?" Sherlock muses aloud.

John laughs. Sherlock wishes he could record the sound.

"And when did you become good at the friend thing?" 

John means it as a joke, Sherlock knows. But he still feels a slight sting at the words.

There must have been a flicker of that hurt that crossed his face, because John clears his throat a moment later and averts his eyes.

"I suppose we should be getting back soon," John mutters, and then drains the last of his coffee.

Sherlock nods in agreement. As they stand to leave, Sherlock tries not to dwell on the little bit of pride that bubbles in his gut at John's unconscious use of the word "we."

* * *

 

 It's rather odd, Sherlock thinks, that he managed to go over three years knowing John (five, if you counted the time he was away) without once meeting Harry Watson. John's parents are dead -- had been long before he and Sherlock had met -- and Harry is all that is left of John's early life. Sherlock doesn't like not knowing things about John. He also resents that he first meets Harry when she's lying in a hospital bed.

Harry has the appearance of a woman who is normally very full of life. She's got John's eyes -- the rich, dark blue that betrays nothing of her inner thoughts. She has his nose, too, and his sandy hair -- though hers has gone much grayer than John's. Her laugh lines are deep, though at the moment they're overshadowed by the sallowness of her skin and the tiredness of her brow.

Even dying, though, she's a bawdy person.

"Johnny!" she proclaims as soon as John and Sherlock enter the hospital room.

She throws her arms wide to embrace John. Clara, who is sitting by her bed, frowns.

"Be careful," Clara warns, "you'll rip your stitches."

"As if it'll make much of a difference at this point," Harry says jovially as John hugs her gently.

Everyone else in the room tenses, but Harry is laughing.

"Oh, come on," she says. "If I can't laugh about it, what am I supposed to do?"

Nobody replies. Harry finally sees Sherlock.

"So," she says, "this is the infamous Sherlock Holmes."

"Pleasure to met you." Sherlock steps forward and holds his hand out. Harry stares at it.

"Johnny didn't tell you," she says gravely.

Sherlock freezes awkwardly, looking to John for an explanation. His only response is an eye roll.

"I'm a hugger," says Harry.

She opens her arms again and stares at Sherlock. He lowers his arm, steps forward, and wraps his arm stiffly around her neck.

"You weren't kidding, John," says Harry when Sherlock separates himself. "He's a bit off."

"Harry --" John warns.

"Did you enjoy your walk?" Clara asks. Sherlock has a feeling she's used to interrupting these interactions between the Watson siblings.

"Yeah," says John. He's still frowning.

There's an awkward pause. It's broken a couple of seconds later by John's mobile going off.

"It's Mary," John announces, looking at the screen. "Shit -- I forgot, there's a scan today --"

"Better get going," says Harry.

John looks torn.

"I'm not going anywhere, John," she says. "They won't discharge me for another week, and the doctors don't have any news left to give me."

John looks at Sherlock, who shrugs.

"Alright," John says. "I'll be back in a couple of hours. Do you want me to grab anything? I can swing by your place --"

"Clara's got a list," says Harry.

Clara digs into her purse and presents John with a small piece of paper and a set of keys for John to take. She thanks him, and he exits the room without another glance back.

"Honey, do you mind grabbing me some ice chips?" Harry asks as soon as John's left.

"Sure."

They kiss, and Clara gives Harry's hand a squeeze before she departs. Harry watches her go, and then turns to Sherlock once again.

"So," she says, and her jovial tone is gone. "How long have you been in love with my brother?"

Sherlock doesn't know what to say. He opens his mouth, but seems unable to make sound come out.

Harry laughs.

"You don't have to look so traumatized," she says. "I could see it as soon as you walked in here."

"I -- Harry, I'm not --"

"Still in denial then?" Harry sighs. "I was afraid of that. I've been waiting to see John happy for so long... guess I won't get the chance now."

Sherlock could not be more grateful that Clara chooses that moment to return.

"Here you go," she says, passing a pink plastic cup to Harry.

"Sherlock and I were just talking about John," says Harry as she pops a few chips in her mouth, "and how they're madly in love with one another. John's being a tit about it, though."

"Oh, yeah," says Clara with a small smile at Sherlock. "I thought there might be something going on there."

"I'm afraid you're both mistaken," says Sherlock coolly.

"Nah," says Harry. "See, my gaydar can be a little faulty sometimes. But Clara's is always spot on. She's got a sixth sense about these kinds of things."

"I really do."

Then they're both laughing. Sherlock wants to vomit.

"How's it feel knowing you've drunk yourself into an early grave, Harry?" Sherlock quips.

He regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth, of course. Clara's eyes widen and her mouth falls open.

But Harry laughs more.

"You're  _exactly_ how John described!" she squawks. "He said you get ornery when you start to feel things."

"Maybe we'd better drop it, babe," says Clara.

"Okay, okay," Harry chortles. "We're done."

The "for now" hangs in the air.

In the following silence, Harry's light mood dissipates. She sinks down in the bed as her eyes begin to droop. Clara reaches out for her hand again.

"The doctors have informed you of your prognosis, then?" Sherlock asks.

"Yeah," said Harry. "I'm kind of done talking about that, to be honest --"

"I just don't  _understand_ \--" Clara hisses.

"Clara --"

"No," says Clara. Her lower lip is trembling. "Why can't _I_ be your donor --"

"Clara, honey, they told you --"

"Your blood type isn't a match," says Sherlock quietly.

Harry and Clara stare at him.

"How did you --?" Clara begins.

"They just ran the test two hours ago," says Harry. "John couldn't have told you."

"I ran my own test this morning," Sherlock explains.

Harry laughs dryly. Clara's frown deepens.

"John told us he was a genius," says Harry.

"John can't donate either," Sherlock continues.

"Maybe he's not a genius," Harry says, "if he can only spit things out at us that we already know --"

"I can."

Perhaps it's a mark of how much time they spend together -- Harry and Clara fix him with identical stares of shock.

"What --?" Harry begins.

Sherlock interrupts her.

"Your blood type is O-negative," he says, "as is mine."

"You want to give Harry your liver?" Clara breathes.

"You don't even know me," says Harry.

"You're John's sister."

Clara laughs shrilly.

"Wow, you really  _do_ love him."

Sherlock ignores this.

"If I don't help you, your odds of survival are less than one percent. You have one of the rarest blood types in the world, and I just so happen to be a match who fits all of the necessary donor criteria. It's only logical."

He finishes this statement with a shrug.

"You say it as if you're loaning me your car for the weekend," says Harry.

"The liver is the only organ in the body capable of regeneration," says Sherlock. "I'll bounce back in no time."

Harry considers for a long moment.

"I'm not saying no," she says slowly, "but you know John will hate this idea, don't you?"

"I doubt that," says Sherlock. "I'd be saving his favorite sister."


	3. Viability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's past addiction comes back to haunt him; John finds out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please notice the updated tags!

Harry decides to take Sherlock up on his offer before they break the news to John. Sherlock doesn't understand what all of the fuss is about -- of course he'll be thrilled. Sherlock does caution both Harry and Clara not to get their hopes up -- he might not be a viable donor because of his past heroin addiction. They say they understand, though Sherlock doesn't quite think they do.

When a nurse returns to check Harry's vitals, they inform her of the decision and ask to speak with the doctor. The nurse fetches him immediately, and he arrives within minutes.

"Good afternoon."

He's an older chap -- short and balding. Happily married for seventeen years, three children, all in primary school, Sherlock deduces.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Parker," says Clara. Her tone is considerably lighter, and she already looks less tired than she did that morning.

"Clara, Harry, hello," says Dr. Parker. He picks up Harry's chart and gives it a cursory once over. "Nurse Evans tells me we've got a potential door who's come forward."

"That would be me," says Sherlock from the corner.

Dr. Parker turns to look at him.

"And you are --?"

Sherlock Holmes," Harry provides. "John's friend."

"Your brother John, yes?" Dr. Parker asks, and Harry nods. "Ah, yes, the detective... forgive me asking, but have the two of you ever met?"

"Before today, no," Sherlock answers."

"This really is rather generous of you, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock shrugs.

"I'm the same blood type, it's only logical."

"We'll need to run our own tests to confirm --"

"Of course."  
"er --" Clara begins, looking to Sherlock. She seems to be asking for his permission. He nods. "Sherlock also mentioned -- he used to be an addict, and he said that might affect his viability?"

"I see," says Dr. Parker slowly. "That'll certainly have to be taken into consideration... it won't necessarily disqualify you, Mr. Holmes, but we'll need a complete history of your usage, and we'll probably need to take a biopsy, and check your enzyme levels."

"Naturally," Sherlock drawled.

"We also require all potential donors to go to a counselor while preparations are being made. It's a big decision, and we don't take it lightly."

Sherlock purses his lips, but nods. He'll talk to Mycroft about that... probably get out of it.

Dr. Parker leaves then, after scribbling a note down in Harry's chart. He's presumably gone to ask a nurse to draw up some paperwork for Sherlock -- indeed, Nurse Evans returns several minutes later.

"I've got some paperwork for you to fill out," she informs Sherlock. "And I"m going to take a blood sample."

Sherlock nods and slips his jacket off to roll up his sleeve. He trades with Nurse Evans -- his arm for the hospital forms. She frowns when she notices the track marks on his arm.

"Dr. Parker's been informed," Sherlock tells her dryly.

Nurse Evans nods.

"I'll be asking about that when I take your history," she says.

Mercifully, it doesn't take her long to find a vein, but Sherlock knows not to take this as a sign that his liver is in good health. Besides, for his most recent binge, he favored his other arm.

Nurse Evans is almost finished taking her sample when John returns, looking a little out of breath.

"Sorry that took so long," he says. "Mary's out parking the car --"

He freezes when he sees Sherlock, whose heart gives a little jump under John's stare. He'd been hoping to keep John out of the loop until he'd been confirmed as a viable donor.

"Did you get a print-out of the scan?" Harry asks.

"Wha--? Oh, yeah." John reaches inside his jacket pocket, withdraws a folded up piece of paper, and thrusts it at Harry. She opens it, and she and Clara begin cooing excitedly over it.

"What's the matter with you, then?" he barks at Sherlock.

"Nothing," Sherlock replies. "They're just running some tests."

"What tests?" John demands.

"Blood tests to confirm that I'm the same type as Harry."

John frowns, which confuses Sherlock. Shouldn't he be pleased?

"Alright, Mr. Holmes, that's all I need for now," says Nurse Evans. She removes the needle from Sherlock's arm and he winces slightly. "If you'll follow me, we'll get you admitted --"

 "Admitted for what?" John asks.

"They've got to take my history, determine whether I'm a good candidate for donation --"

"It doesn't matter if you are," John says, "you're not donating."

"John --" Harry begins. John cuts her off with a jab of his finger.

"No, shut up Harriett, you're not getting his liver."

"John," says Sherlock slowly, "it's my body, I'm free to do with it what I like."

"She's my sister, and she's not taking your liver."

Clara is looking back and forth worriedly between the two Watson siblings. Mary chooses that moment to appear in the doorway.

"So sorry," she says. "Parking was a nightmare --"

Sherlock nods at the nurse, indicating they should take the moment of distraction to slip from the room. John tries calling after him, but he is halted at the door by Mary.

"What's going on?" Sherlock hears her ask.

He doesn't hear much more after that -- it's a garble of John's and Harriet's shouts, Clara's pleas for calm, and Mary's confused questions. Nurse Evans leads him down a corridor to an empty exam room.

"Hope they get that all sorted," she says mildly. "Have you got the paperwork sorted? Excellent, I'll be back in a few minutes with the results --"

She leaves Sherlock alone on the exam table to wait. He drums his fingers absently on his leg and briefly considers calling John and asking him to come so they can sort this all out. Before he can do so however, his phone chimes. It's a message from John.

_Where the hell are you?_

Sherlock replies:

_Exam room. Down the first corridor, third door on the left. SH_

Then he waits. It takes John less than a minute to find him. When he bursts through the door, his face is red and his eyes are manic.

"What the  _hell_ are you doing, Sherlock?" he seethes.

"I thought that was fairly obvious," Sherlock replies coolly, though on the inside he's cowering under John's fury. "I'm intending to donate a portion of my liver to your sister, who will die without it --"

"Not what I fucking meant, Sherlock!" John shouts. "What are you trying to get at by doing this?"

"Why are you so against it?" Sherlock asks. "Your sister needs a donor, I might be able to help. If I can't she'll almost certainly die."

"You didn't think to bring this up this morning?" John asks shrilly. He's pacing the room now, and waving his arms animatedly. "We could have talked it over, you could have prepared me --"

"I didn't want to get your hopes up," says Sherlock. "There's a chance I might not be able to -- the drugs --"

Finally, John looks as if he's calming down. He's stopped pacing, at any rate, and he's staring at Sherlock with an intense fire blazing behind his eyes.

"You could die," he says lowly. "There are hundreds of things that could go wrong --"

"Doctors perform this kind of procedure every day --" Sherlock counters.

"And some of their patients don't make it out!" John snaps. "I thought I lost you once, Sherlock. I nearly lost you for real a few months ago -- I can't --" he has to stop to take a deep breath. "If you do this, and you don't make it out, I'll lose you  _and_ my sister in one go -- and Sherlock, I will never forgive you for that."

"John," says Sherlock slowly, and he's having to fight to keep his voice even while his gut is responding to the impact of John's confession, "if you learned that I had a chance to save Harry and did nothing about it, you wouldn't forgive me either. This way, I'm ensuring the best odds for everyone involved."

"You think I wouldn't understand it if you wanted to keep your body in one piece rather than help someone who's a total stranger to you?" John asks. "They'll be taking half your bloody liver, for Christ's sake."

"Yes, they'll be removing half of the one organ in the human body capable of fully regenerating itself," says Sherlock. "And I'll get to experience that. If it helps, pretend I'm thinking of this as an experiment."

John laughs, but it still sounds more hollow than Sherlock would like.

Nurse Evans returns, with a light knock on the door first.

"Oh, sorry," she says when she sees John. "Er --" she glances uncertainly at Sherlock.

"It's alright," Sherlock tells her. "I'd like him here."

"I was kicked out," mutters John. "Something about not wanting to upset Harry in her condition..."

Nurse Evans nods, and pulls up a chair besides Sherlock's exam table.

"Your blood test confirmed -- you're the same type as Ms. Watson. So I'm going to proceed with taking your complete medical history, after which Dr. Parker will want to schedule additional tests."

Sherlock nods his acquiescence. Nurse Evans begins to type away on the hospital computer.

"Full name?" she asks.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"Date of birth?"

"January 29th, 1977."

The questions continue, growing more and more personal as they progress. Sherlock finds he doesn't mind having John in the room, learning things about him like this. It's comforting in a way; Sherlock won't admit it out loud, not yet, but this entire process is frightening for him.

"Your most recent sexual encounter?"

For some reason, this question  _does_ feel a bit awkward with John there. Still, Sherlock answers in his usual, perfunctory manner.

"Never."

"Never?"

There's a flicker of surprise that crosses Nurse Evan's face before she blanks it out to her usual, professionally neutral expression. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"I don't believe I stuttered."

John chuckles, but Sherlock had seen his eyebrows raise as well.

The conversation then turns to his heroin addiction.

"How long did you use?" Nurse Evans asks.

"Two years."

"How long ago?"

"Ten years, give or take."

"Were you ever prescribed Methadone or similar drugs to combat your addiction?"

"No."

"Did you ever experience an overdose that resulted in your hospitalization?"

"Yes," Sherlock admits. He feels, rather than sees, John stiffen in the corner of the room. "Twice."

"There are medical records of these visits?"

"Probably," says Sherlock. "If my brother hasn't wiped them."

Nurse Evans looks at him then, a question forming on her lips, but Sherlock shakes his head.

"Nevermind, yes, there are records."

Nurse Evans returns to the computer.

"Have you used since?"

"Er--" Sherlock hesitates. John shifts his weight awkwardly. "Yes. Two hits last July."

"Only two?" Nurse Evans pries.

"Yes," Sherlock assures her. "Ask my forensic pathologist if you don't believe me."

Nurse Evans looks as if she wants to ask about that, too, but thinks better of it.  _She learns quickly_ , Sherlock thinks. John snorts, as if he could read Sherlock's mind.

"Those are all of the questions," Nurse Evans informs him. "Based on your answers, I'd guess Dr. Parker will want to schedule an exam within the next week, including that biopsy. You can chat with the receptionist on your way out."

She discharges him then, and escorts him and John back out into the lobby.

"I'm not allowed back in Harry's room for another three hours," John informs him as he follows him to the desk.

"Doctor's orders?" Sherlock asks.

"Clara's," says John. He adds, as an afterthought, "and Mary's."

They don't speak for a moment while Sherlock arranges his appointments at the desk.

"You still haven't told me," John says quietly. They're making their way to the canteen now for dinner.

"Told you?"

"Why you're doing this," John explains. "You told me  _why_ ," he adds when Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, "but not really. I know when you're not telling me something, Sherlock."

Sherlock eyes him carefully, taking in every feature, every worry line etched onto John Watson's face. He wishes he could smooth those lines away -- a brave, kind soul like John Watson should never have to suffer or face worry... yet he  _has_ suffered, even at Sherlock's hands. Sherlock knows he will never be able to forgive himself for that.

"As ever, John, you see but don't observe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... some questionable medical science happening here. I've had trouble finding whether former addicts can donate organs -- in a real situation the doctors very well may have rejected Sherlock's liver because of his past addiction. Please ignore science for the purposes of this fic.


	4. Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations begin; Harry is released from the hospital. John and Mary are preparing for parenthood.

Sherlock's exam and biopsy are scheduled for the following Thursday -- which happens to land on his birthday.

He's never put stock in such events -- never deemed them important, nor really noticed when one passed... until the year 2011, when he met a certain army doctor who had been invalided from Afghanistan.

He doesn't believe in fate -- he really doesn't -- but even he can't deny the significance of the fact that he and John  _met_ on his birthday, and that every year that followed felt special  _because_ John was there to celebrate them.

Well,  _technically_ John was only there to celebrate one -- the first year... the second one came while Sherlock was off playing dead, and the third happened whilst Sherlock was in the midst of wedding planning for John and Mary (John had felt completely awful, and had made it up to him by throwing a Bond night when he realized he'd forgotten). Still, Sherlock feels oddly content when he awakes on the 29th -- he and John have made it through another year together.

 _Not really_ together _, though,_ a dark voice in the back of his mind provides.

This one, the fourth marker of their time, looks as if it will pass by unnoticed as well. Several thing are happening on this day -- Harry is being discharged from the hospital -- with strict instructions to rest up and keep herself as healthy as possible for the new liver that will (hopefully) be coming her way in the next few weeks. John will likely be at the hospital, escorting her home, or with Mary, who has officially reached full term today and could deliver at any time.

All things considered, Sherlock prepares himself (albeit disappointingly) to get through the first stage in this process on his own. He dresses himself far more casually than he would normally (as he'll be changing in and out of hospital gowns all day) and leaves the flat at Baker Street in the very early morning, before Mrs. Hudson has stirred. He ignores birthday wishes on his phone from Mycroft and Lestrade, because they remind him of the messages he's not receiving from the one person he'd like to speak to today.

He doesn't blame John for not accompanying him today, or even not contacting him. The past couple of weeks have seen John torn in a hundred different directions. Sherlock is coming to realize that John will always choose his family first. He's fully prepared to be second, even third in line for John's attention, if it means he's considered by John at all.

The sky is still dark when Sherlock arrives at the hospital. He checks in at the nurses station and is immediately escorted to his own room. They take his vitals and then provide him with a gown to change into -- he strips off his sweatpants and hoodie and piles them neatly on the bedside chair. After he's donned the gown, he climbs under the blankets, shivering slightly, and settles in to wait.

He's kept waiting a long time; he doesn't even realize he's drifted off to sleep until his phone chimes from the pocket of his sweatshirt and he's jolted awake by the sound of it.

Probably more birthday wishes, he thinks. He ignores it, until it goes off again less than ten seconds later. He sighs and extracts the mobile from his jacket. Both messages are from John.

_Just got to the hospital. Harry's not being let out till this afternoon. What room are you in?_

And the second:

_Happy birthday, by the way._

Another message comes as Sherlock types a response.

_Visiting hours haven't officially started yet, Sherlock. I need to know what room you're in if I'm meant to break in._

Sherlock smiles, and continues his message.

_Room 221. Are you really breaking into a hospital? SH_

John's response comes almost immediately.

_You're joking, right? Yes, you daft sod, I'm breaking in. Be there in a few minutes._

It doesn't take John long. Sherlock is surprised he wasn't caught, which he says as soon as John's taken a seat.

"I know my way around hospitals," says John, "especially this place. I've practically been living here the last month."

"I see," says Sherlock. "Why did you feel the need to break in before visiting hours started?"

"I like a bit of danger, remember?" John replies. His eyes are twinkling. "I knew you'd be in early, anyway, so I thought I'd come and hang out. I'm driving Harry and Clara home this afternoon... though they wanted to stick around for a bit and see how things go with you, if that's alright."

"Of course," says Sherlock. "What about Mary?"

"What about her?" John asks.

"She's full term today."

"Full term doesn't mean the baby's coming right now. It means the baby could safely come now, but it's not going to. It could still be another month, maybe more. Besides, Mary has my number."

There's an iciness to John's tone, an irritation that he doesn't quite manage to conceal. Sherlock thinks about pressing John, but decides against it.

"Before I forget," says John, reaching into his pocket, "this is for you."

It's an envelope, a birthday card. Sherlock opens it, and laughs the instant he sees the front.

"Lestrade drew it," says John. "He's not a bad artist. The Yard all signed it, too -- Donovan against her will, Anderson a little  _too_ willingly."

"Thank you," says Sherlock. He places the card on the side table, and sighs. "How long is it going to bloody take these people?"

"No kidding," John agrees. "Not as if people's lives are depending on this."

John's come around to the idea of Sherlock undergoing life-threatening surgery in the past week. Still, Sherlock senses a part of John that's hoping Sherlock won't be able to donate.

It's almost as if Dr. Parker heard their conversation -- he appears in the doorway with Sherlock's chart in his hand.

"Alright, Mr. Holmes," he says, and he gets straight to business. "I'm going to give you a brief exam before we prep you for the biopsy -- if you could pull off the top portion of the gown --"

John reaches over as Sherlock leans forward to untie the neck and middle back strings. He pauses, however, before allowing the fabric to drop down. Sherlock glances up at his face, but John isn't looking at his eyes -- he's looking at Sherlock's back and frowning.

"Sherlock --" he starts.

Ah, the scars on his back. Sherlock had completely forgotten about them, and the fact that John didn't know they were there. He manages to catch John's eye and tries to communicate with him silently to let the subject drop. Mercifully, John does just that. The entire exchange goes unnoticed by Dr. Parker, who is typing away on the hospital computer with his back to Sherlock's bed. As Sherlock lies back once again, chest and abdomen exposed, he catches John staring at the bullet wound in the center of his chest -- the scar is still slightly pink, not completely faded to white.

"It says here in your records you suffered from a gunshot wound last August?" Dr. Parker remarks as he scrolls through Sherlock's medical history.

"Correct," Sherlock drawls.

Dr. Parker turns then, and notices the raised bit of flesh on Sherlock's chest.

"Fully healed by now, I presume," he says.

"Obviously," says Sherlock.

"Anyway," Dr. Parker goes on, "let's begin."

He prods at Sherlock's abdomen for what seems like an age, checking for tenderness. There's none, though Sherlock grows increasingly irritated.

"Are you nearly finished?" he snaps as Dr. Parker pokes particularly hard at his diaphragm.

"Checking for any abnormalities or masses," says Dr. Parker. "Nearly finished -- yes, I think that's everything."

He tells Sherlock to put his gown back on. John helps him again, his eyes lingering on Sherlock's back once more.

"A resident will be in to prep you for surgery within the hour," Dr. Parker informs him. "I'll see you in the operating room, Mr. Holmes."

John begins interrogating him as soon as Dr. Parker leaves.

"What are those scars on your back, Sherlock?" he asks softly.

"I'm quite sure I don't have to explain that to you, John," Sherlock retorts. He finds he can't look John in the eye right now.

"They're from -- was it -- while you were away?"

John's voice is low, nearly a whisper. Still not looking at him, Sherlock nods.

"When?"

His voice is angry now. Sherlock chances a look at John, whose jaw is set, his breathing shallow.

"I'll tell you the story sometime," Sherlock promises.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" John asks.

"You didn't want to know before."

The reply is honest, and made without blame. Sherlock still regrets it, because as soon as it's left his mouth John's expression shifts. He goes from looking furious to looking immensely guilty, and Sherlock thinks that face is wrong. John shouldn't be the one to feel guilty -- he's not the one who left, the one who pretended to be dead for nearly two years. He's not the one who made his best friend suffer through turmoil and grief for that length of time. John Watson should not feel guilty for anything.

"I'm sorry," John whispers.

He shouldn't be apologizing either.

Sherlock doesn't get a chance to tell him this -- a resident appears then to begin prepping him for the procedure. The room is very quiet except for the sound of the resident bustling around the room, taking Sherlock's vitals one final time and forcing a ridiculous looking cap on his head. In an effort to break the awkward tension that has fallen between them, John threatens to take his photo. Sherlock smiles, but can't bring himself to laugh. John doesn't try to make idle conversation again.

He does walk with Sherlock as he's wheeled out into the hall towards the operating theater.

"They'll let me watch from the gallery," John tells him. "My medical license --"

"I'll be fine, John," Sherlock says. "It's a biopsy -- it'll take an hour at most."

"I know," says John with a shrug. "I just wanted you to know that someone'll be watching."

Sherlock wonders, briefly, if John watched the surgery after he'd been shot. Everything had been such a blur afterwards, he'd never gotten the chance nor even thought to ask. It doesn't matter now -- John's promise means the world to him.

"See you when you get out," says John when the resident denies him access through the OR room doors. He reaches over the rails on the gurney to squeeze Sherlock's hand encouragingly. Sherlock takes a moment, quickly as possible, to memorize the feeling of John's palm pressed against his own: the callouses, the firm yet supple muscles of his fingers, the warm skin... and then John let's go. Sherlock watches John's face all the while he's wheeled through the first set of double doors. John doesn't move until, presumably, he's out of Sherlock's sight.

The OR is cold -- it's colors surreal and foreboding under the stark fluorescent lights. Everyone -- the five people in the room -- have their faces covered by surgical masks, so Sherlock can only see their eyes. He recognizes Dr. Parker immediately, of course.

"Hello again, Mr. Holmes," he says. "Ready for the anesthesia?"

"Wait, just a moment," Sherlock says. He's being silly, he knows, but he can't help himself as he looks around to the gallery window, waiting...

John appears after a few seconds, and smiles down at him encouragingly.

"Alright," says Sherlock, and the anesthesiologist injects a syringe into his IV.

"Count backwards from ten for me, Mr. Holmes," says Dr. Parker.

"Ten," Sherlock begins, his eyes locked on John's, "nine... eight... s-seven..........six............fi--"

Even when his eyes have drifted shut, John's face is etched into his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The birthday card (inspiration)
> 
> https://img0.etsystatic.com/015/0/5690921/il_fullxfull.438423868_8he9.jpg
> 
> Also, come follow me on Tumblr!
> 
> beccaflaherty.tumblr.com


	5. Green Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's results come through. Mycroft pays a visit to the hospital.

The first face Sherlock sees when he awakens is the very last face he wants to see.

"Hello, little brother," says Mycroft in an oily tone.

"G'way," Sherlock slurs.

"Tut tut," says Mycroft. "Don't make me get Mummy. She's very upset with you, by the way."

Sherlock wants to snap at his brother that this was none of his business (especially when it comes to involving their mother) but finds he doesn't have the energy.

Mycroft notices his struggle.

"The anesthesia will take some time to wear off," he says, "though I'm sure you're fairly familiar with the process by now."

"John --" Sherlock murmurs.

"He's taken his sister home," says Mycroft. "He saw that you made it out of surgery safely and stayed by your bed until it was time for Harriett to be discharged. He left about half an hour ago."

"Which is when you saw fit to ambush me," Sherlock says, his voice still slightly impeded by grogginess.

"I wanted to have a proper conversation with you," says Mycroft, "without the involvement of a third party. Especially when that third party has such an impact on your thinking process."

"I'm not --"

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock," Mycroft scolds. He sounds tired. "More importantly, don't lie to yourself."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock insists.

Mycroft sighs.

"I see you're going to be difficult about this. Very well, let me ask you a question: what the bloody hell are you trying to prove by going through with this, Sherlock?"

"I'm helping Harriett -- it's  _logical_ \--"

"Brother dear, you haven't made a decision based in logic since you stepped off of that roof," Mycroft tells him.

Sherlock knows he's right, but he can't bring himself to allow Mycroft that satisfaction. So he remains silent.

"I had a peek at your results, by the way," says Mycroft, his tone light and conversational now. "You've been deemed a viable donor. They'll be here in a few moments to discuss a timeline for the big day, and to set up counseling sessions."

"Yes, about that," says Sherlock, "you'll arrange something, won't you?"

"Arrange --?" Mycrofts begins in a confused voice.

"The counseling sessions," says Sherlock. "I won't go -- but you'll need to forge some paperwork --"

"That's where you're mistaken," says Mycroft. "You  _will_ attend counseling, like every other living donor is required to. I will not be forging any papers for you."

Sherlock thinks that, in his drug-addled state, he's misheard his brother.

"What do you mean --?"

"I've told you, Sherlock, you're  _not_ being logical about this. You're making this choice from a purely sentimental point of view, and you need guidance."

"I don't need guidance, I've already made my decision!" Sherlock snaps. He's choosing, once again, to ignore the remark about logic.

"Be that as it may, there are many factors that you are steadfastly  _refusing_ to take into consideration --"

"I've had the risks explained to me, Mycroft," says Sherlock dangerously. "I could die, bleed out --"

"I'm not talking about the health risks," says Mycroft. "I'm talking about John."

Sherlock freezes.

"What about John?"

Mycroft sighs.

" _That_ , brother, is exactly why you need to see a counselor."

He leaves before Sherlock can respond.

* * *

 As Mycroft promised, Dr. Parker comes to Sherlock later that afternoon to confirm his viability as a donor, as well as to schedule regular counseling sessions (twice a week. The date of the transplant, Dr. Parker informs him, is entirely dependent on the therapists assessment of Sherlock's psychological state. This dampens Sherlock's already foul mood -- which is worsened further when one of the nurses comes to inform him that he'll be kept overnight for observation. The resulting tantrum cases Dr. Parker to threaten sedation if Sherlock continues to throw pudding cups at the staff.

Night falls. Sherlock watches the sky darken outside the window. As the minutes tick by, his heart sinks further and further with the realization that John has broken his promise.

 _See you when you get out_.

John has not come -- Sherlock has not seen him since the seconds before he was put under anesthesia. On the PA system, he hears a voice announce the end of visiting hours. John remains absent, and Sherlock's phone does not announce the arrival of any messages.

Sherlock would be unable to sleep due to the knot that forms in his stomach, but the drugs claim his consciousness once more.

* * *

 Sherlock doesn't hear from John the following day, when he's being discharged from the hospital. In fact, he doesn't hear from John for several days. He does, however, hear from Harry, who calls the morning before Sherlock's first counseling session.

" _I thought we should meet for coffee_ ," she says. " _My treat. I haven't properly thanked you yet."_

He accepts, mostly out of a desire to hear word of John.

Harry meets him at a coffee shop close to the hospital. She has regained her color, though she still has the gaunt look of someone who is ill. Sherlock wonders how long her body will really hold out -- the three month prognosis seems a bit of a stretch going by the sunken quality of her cheeks.

"Clara wanted to come," Harry tells him as they sip their tea. "She started back at school today, though."

Sherlock nods.

"Go on then," Harry says. "I know you're dying to ask about John --"

In a way, Sherlock admires her brass quality. He'd always thought of John as an open person -- he's able to give Sherlock his honest opinion on anything without hesitation -- but meeting Harry has made Sherlock see how closed off John is. He's never been one to broach difficult subjects without heavy prodding on Sherlock's part.

"Have you heard from him recently?" Sherlock asks, feeling a bit ashamed of himself.

"Once or twice," says Harry. "He says he keeps meaning to call you to check in."

"Does he?"

Sherlock isn't quite able to keep the bitter tone from his voice. Harry's answering look of sympathy is almost unbearable.

"He and Mary had a fight," Harry tells him. "The day you had your biopsy done -- she showed up while I was being discharged and they started screaming at one another. The nurses told them to take it outside."

"What were they fighting about?" Sherlock asks.

"What else?" says Harry, as if the answer is obvious. "You."

"Me?"

"For a genius, you can be remarkably thick."

In Harry's words, Sherlock hears an echo of that same statement being made to him -- over a year ago, in a small cafe much like this one. John leaning back in his chair, arms crossed -- Mary sitting beside him, looking between Sherlock and John with wide eyes... John's upper lip twitching with anger -- an expression that should be menacing, if it weren't for the ridiculous caterpillar on John's face...

"Why were they fighting about me?" Sherlock asks.

Harry sighs, as if Sherlock is being very stupid.

"Mary woke up and John was gone," she explains. "Gone to the hospital to see you -- she tried calling him several times, but his phone was off. She knew he'd be there when I was discharged... I guess they'd planned to go together. He took the car, she had to take the tube -- and then there was a lot of talk about him choosing you over her, something about her trying to kill you, and how if John's meant to be looking after a baby he's got to prove he'll choose his family first... and that's about the time they were thrown out."

Sherlock is at a loss for words. He wishes that John had told him this -- at least called to explain... he would have understood.

"He feels really bad about not talking to you this week," Harry tells him. "Mary's got him on a tight leash right now -- he's not supposed to go anywhere without taking her, in case she goes into labor." Harry snorts. "I don't know why he's with her, to be honest. Whatever happened between them -- I don't think it's fixed, whatever they say."

She's obviously waiting for Sherlock to provide an explanation, one that Sherlock is tempted to give. He finds he likes the idea of having Harry as an ally -- but he made a vow five months ago to protect Mary, John, and their family. He finds he can't break it now, despite everything that's happening.

"You know John," he says, trying to keep his tone light. "Traditional family values and all that. He was a soldier, after all."

Harry stares at him for a long moment, then nods. It's obvious she doesn't buy his explanation, but she mercifully doesn't press the matter.

* * *

 

Sherlock's in the waiting room at the therapists's office, scrolling through case notes on his phone when he receives the message from John. 

_Harry called. Said she saw you today. Sorry I haven't been in touch. How are you?_

It's irrational, Sherlock knows, but he's irritated. He debates ignoring the message, but that would make John pry. So he types out a simple " _Fine"_ and hits 'send.' _  
_

John's reply is instantaneous.

 _I'd like to meet sometime soon and catch up if that's alright_.

John is being delicate, careful. He's not demanding that they go for lunch or coffee, he's suggesting, asking permission. He knows Sherlock is mad with him, and he thinks it's deserved. Somehow this makes Sherlock even more annoyed, so he lies.

 _Busy_.  _SH_

Send.

Again, John's reply is quick.

_Please?_

Sherlock types quickly, as the receptionist has just called his name.

_At an appointment. Unavailable. SH_

Send.

Then he turns his phone off and follows her through an open door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who's been reading this fic! I should warn you -- I'm a very sporadic updater (for everything). There's periods of time when RL gets in the way, and I can't update for weeks at a time, and there's periods of time (like now) when I'm on a break from school, stuck at my job at the library, and have all the time in the world to write/post updates. Thought you should know that about me!


	6. Bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock in counseling.

The first twenty minutes of Sherlock's session are spent in total silence. After the female doctor introduces herself as Lindsey Younce, Sherlock takes the next five minutes to deduce everything he needs to know about her life, and the fifteen minutes after that he stares blankly at the wall while Dr. Younce scribbles on her notepad. Sherlock feels himself growing steadily more and more impatient.

"Aren't you supposed to ask me questions?" Sherlock finally asks, unable to stand the silence a moment longer.

"I suppose," is Dr. Younce's reply. She doesn't look at him and continues to scratch away at her notebook.

"Where did you get your license?" Sherlock demands, and then he says, "No, don't tell me -- Cambridge going by the shorthand on the post-its by your desk."

The corners of Dr. Younce's mouth quiver upwards into a smirk.

"Very good," she says, "they told me you'd do that."

Sherlock isn't sure how to respond, so he opts for his usual defensive tactic.

"Husband been away in Barbados long, then? Wonder if he'll be extending his trip again -- but then, you've both got other people to be seeing to --"

Dr. Younce  _does_ glance up at him then, and Sherlock counts it as a victory. She does not seem impressed.

"They told me you'd do that as well," she says. "You picked up on my clues very nicely --" she stands, crosses to her desk, and begins re-arranging several of the items. "Let's see -- wedding ring on my finger told you I was married --" she takes the ring off and puts it on the corner of the desk; Sherlock is just now realizing that the ring is a size too big for her... borrowed, then -- "--postcard from Barbados telling you that my husband was away --" she deposits said card into the recycling bin, "-- and the fresh flowers on my desk obviously from my secret lover. Did I get everything correct?"

"How --" Sherlock is too stunned to speak for a moment. He clears his throat. "How did I deduce that your husband kept extending his stay?"

Dr. Younce shrugs.

"I have no idea. Didn't plant anything of that kind, you must've made it up yourself."

She crosses back to the chairs and sits across from Sherlock, staring at him icily.

"This sessions, Mr. Holmes -- if you haven't already guessed -- are not about me. You will not interrogate me about my personal life, nor will you use your skills to threaten me or make me feel inferior to you. I should remind you that a woman's life is dependent upon the outcome of our time together, and you have already wasted half a session in your attempts to prove your intellectual superiority. Let's not waste any more, agreed?"

Grudgingly, Sherlock nods.

"Good," says Dr. Younce. "Now, why don't you tell me what brought you here today."

"My brother wouldn't forge the paperwork for me," Sherlock grumbles.

Dr. Younce's only response is to raise her eyebrows. Sherlock sighs.

"I volunteered to be a living donor for Harry Watson, who is suffering from cirrhosis. Because of her past alcohol abuse, she is very low on the transplant list. That, coupled with her rare blood type -- which I happen to share -- means she will certainly die if I do not give her my liver."

"That's very altruistic of you," says Dr. Younce immediately.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock replies sarcastically, "I'm a hero. Give me a gold star for the day and send me home. What is the  _point_ of my being here? I've said I want to donate my liver, I've been verified as a viable candidate, and Harry will die without it! This is a waste of time!"

"How do you know Harry Watson?" Dr. Younce presses, ignoring Sherlock's tirade.

"She's John's sister," says Sherlock.

"John --?"

"Oh, don't pretend as if you haven't read the files of everyone involved," Sherlock hisses. "John Watson. Dr. John Watson --"

"--Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, writes the blog about your adventures together, yes, I know who John Watson is," says Dr. Younce. "The point of these sessions is not for me to tell you what I already know. The point is for you to tell me, as openly and honestly as possible, about the people and the circumstances that you interact with on a day-to-day basis. From there, I'm to determine what led you to make this decision, and whether you will be able to cope with the aftermath of this procedure."

Sherlock can't help it; he rolls his eyes.

"'Aftermath of the procedure?'" he repeats. "You went to medical school, correct? You do know that livers _grow back_ \--"

"We are not discussing the physical repercussions of this surgery," says Dr. Younce. "There is a huge emotional impact as well -- a piece of your body will be removed and given to someone else. Often times, people who have this surgery experience something akin to emptiness -- as if a portion of their soul has gone missing --"

"And the energies of their body are disrupted -- God forbid one of my chakras should be misaligned!" says Sherlock in mock horror.

"--to put it in terms you might understand," Dr. Younce goes on, "your body will be working overtime to regenerate your liver. There will be hormones flooding through your brain to compensate for the trauma, and these hormones can cause mood swings, depression, insomnia, anxiety and a whole other host of physiological issues. It's  _my_ job to ensure that you are stable enough going into the procedure to make it through on the other side."

There isn't time for Sherlock to respond -- a loud beeping noise issues from Dr. Younce's desk. She stands and crosses to turn the alarm off.

"That's all the time we have for today, Mr. Holmes," she tells him. "I suggest you spend the next couple of days thinking about how you can best move this process along. I can assure you, it will not be done by trying to outwit me."

Feeling very much like a scolded child, Sherlock flees from the room without so much as a glare for a retort.

* * *

 

Sherlock doesn't turn his mobile back on until he's back at Baker Street. There are five missed calls from John and at least twice as many text messages. He ignores all of them.

"Hoo-hoo!"

Mrs. Hudson calls up the stairs less than five minutes after Sherlock returns home. He grunts and doesn't move from where he's lying on the sofa. She lets herself in with a tea tray, which she sets on the coffee table in front of him.

"How did your appointment go?" she asks conversationally.

"Dull," Sherlock replies.

"Don't know why I bothered to ask," says Mrs. Hudson with a chortle. She makes to go to the kitchen, then stops herself.

"By the way -- John phoned me earlier -- said he was looking for you. Are you avoiding his calls?"

"I turned my phone off for my appointment," says Sherlock. It's mostly true -- he hopes Mrs. Hudson doesn't pick up on the fib.

She doesn't.

"Well, he says to call him back as soon as you can," she tells him, and then she bustles off to the kitchen to start her daily cleaning spree.

With a sigh, Sherlock picks up his mobile and scrolls through John's messages, amid-st the sounds of Mrs. Hudson's low curses in the background.

_Can you call me when you're done?_

_You're probably out by now, just checking in._

_Sherlock, come on. I'm sorry._

_Please write back._

_At least let me know you haven't fallen down a set of stairs or something._

_I'm calling Lestrade. And Mrs. Hudson._

_Mrs. Hudson hasn't seen you yet -- you should be back by now._

_That's it, I'm coming over to Baker Street now._

The last message had come through just before Sherlock returned. Which would mean --

Sure enough, Sherlock hears the lock click downstairs, followed by John's steps rushing up the stairs. When he appears in the doorway, his face is flushed and he is breathing hard. When he locks eyes with Sherlock he looks suddenly furious.

"Why the bloody  _hell_ haven't you been answering my calls?" John demands.

"I found I didn't have anything to say to you," Sherlock replies. He turns over on the couch, facing the cushions.

"So instead of talking this out, you're going to ignore my like a petulant  _child_?"

"That's the plan, yes," Sherlock mumbles into the sofa.

"Why are you mad at me?" John asks, his tone harsh. "I've apologized for not being there after you got out of surgery, I've apologized for losing track of you this last week -- I've been busy --"

"Obviously," says Sherlock, and he sits up now to look at John. "Obviously you've been busy. I notice Mary's not with you -- what did you have to tell her to get away --?"

"Mary had a right to be frustrated with me," John rebuttals, though he's visibly beginning to deflate. "She could go into labor at any moment, and I left her alone --"

"--to pay a visit to your friend, who was in the hospital having a chunk of his liver yanked out of his body," says Sherlock. "You did nothing wrong, John."

"You would say that," says John. He takes a seat in his old armchair and sighs. "I'm sorry for all of this, Sherlock," he says. "I'm being pulled in a hundred different directions right now -- I know that's no excuse for the way I've acted," he adds when Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, "but it's a fact. I'm trying to keep all of you -- Mary, Clara, Harry,  _you_ \-- happy, and there's no way I can succeed all the time."

Sherlock wants desperately to continue to be mad at John, but he finds he can't muster the energy. He doesn't like fighting with him -- it's exhausting and tedious and it takes away from the times that they could be laughing and bickering about body parts in the fridge --

If John still was  _around_ to get mad about the last bit.

"It's fine," Sherlock says at last. "It's alright, John. I understand."

John studies him for a moment, seemingly surprised at his quick forgiveness. Then he nods.

"For the record, Mary suggested I come," says John. "I think I've been driving her up the wall the last couple of days. Clara got us a pager -- so she can buzz me as soon as her contractions start."

It stings a little, Sherlock has to admit, that John didn't come of his own volition.

John must pick up on Sherlock's changed demeanor, because he adds, "I've been wanting to see you all week. That's what's been driving Mary crazy; we haven't stopped arguing about it since your biopsy."

Mrs. Hudson returns from the kitchen.

"Oh, hello John!" she says. As if she hadn't heard them arguing a moment before. "Would you like a cuppa?"

"Ta," says John.

Sherlock's heart jumps. If John's accepting tea, it means he's intending to stay for a while. Mrs. Hudson scoots back into the kitchen.

"You had your first counseling appointment today then?" he asks. "Did you make the therapist cry?"

Sherlock frowns.

"Why would I do that?" he queries.

John laughs.

"Come on," he says, "I've been trying to imagine you sitting in with Ella -- she'd probably crack in about thirty seconds."

Sherlock doesn't want to admit that almost the exact opposite happens.

"The process is going to be even more difficult than I originally anticipated," he says.

"You mean you won't be able to lie and snip your way out of it?" says John. He sounds amused. "Shocker."

"It's pointless," says Sherlock.

"I wouldn't say that," says John. "It can be very good, therapy, even if you don't expect it to be."

There's something else -- an unspoken question hidden beneath the statement that John makes. Sherlock waits for him to make it; John does a moment later after clearing his throat.

"Have you ever -- have you talked to anyone about what happened while you were away?" he asks.

"Mycroft knows," says Sherlock with a shrug.

"That's not the same thing," says John with a shake of his head. "I mean, have you ever told anyone what you went through -- actually said it out loud?"

"What would be the point of that?" says Sherlock. "It happened -- it's over now, I'm home. Everything is as it was."

Except it isn't.

"I'd like to know," says John quietly. "If you'll tell me."

They're interrupted by Mrs. Hudson coming in with John's tea. He accepts the cup with a quiet, "Thanks," before she rushes off downstairs.

"You really want to know?" says Sherlock after he hears the door to 221A close downstairs.

"I do," says John, with a nod of his head.

"Okay," says Sherlock. He takes a deep breath.

"After I jumped from the roof of Bart's, it was essential that I was moved out of the country immediately..."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be a flashback of Sherlock's time traveling throughout Europe... come to think of it, that story might take up two chapters...


	7. Hiatus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened while Sherlock was taking down Moriarty's web.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for torture. Please see updated tags.

_When Sherlock boards Mycroft's private jet later that afternoon, he's still covered in fake blood. It's a mark of how many strange scenarios Mycroft's cronies find themselves in that they aren't taken aback by his appearance... that, or Mycroft's paid them off. The more Sherlock contemplates, the more he suspects the latter must be true._

_He's exhausted and starving; he hasn't eaten or slept since the start of the kidnapping case. His body's been spoiled by John's insistence on him eating and sleeping regularly. It demands stability now -- comfort, consistency -- everything John provided him with. Everything Sherlock had somehow managed to go his entire adult life without needing, and now the prospect of leaving it behind is threatening to drive him mad._

_Sherlock rests his head back against the seat and sighs as his eyes flutter closed. The plane is rumbling to life beneath his feet. He can hear muffled voices issuing from the cockpit -- orders being given and taken from ground control. There are two flight attendants bustling up and down the aisle, but they pay Sherlock no attention._

_Mycroft is late. He was supposed to board this flight with Sherlock and see him to his first destination. Now it looks as if Sherlock might be traveling the first leg of his journey alone._

_Sherlock's only just had this thought when the passenger loading door is opened once again. He doesn't need to open his eyes to know it's Mycroft -- he can hear the click of the brolly as Mycroft makes his way to where Sherlock is sitting. He's too exhausted to open them anyway, and his head is beginning to throb._

_Mycroft takes the seat opposite his brother; Sherlock hears the creaking of the leather and senses Mycroft's presence inches away from his knee caps. He cracks one eye open to peer at the elder Holmes, who looks solemn._

_"Everything's been arranged," says Mycroft. "Miss Hooper is cooperating admirably, the police have collected all the evidence they needed -- none of it can be traced back to us, of course -- and Moriarty's body has been disposed of."_

_Sherlock nods, hums his understanding, and lets his eyes close again. The plane begins to pull out onto the runway._

_"How's John?" he can't help but ask._

_There is a pause before Mycroft answers._

_"Sherlock," he says gently, "you know what we agreed. It was_ your  _idea --"_

_"I know," Sherlock interrupts. "I -- I didn't anticipate it would be this difficult --"_

_Before this had all happened, when Sherlock first realized what he'd have to do, he'd very explicitly asked Mycroft not to be informed of John's well-being. Mycroft had agreed -- both knew knowledge of John would only distract Sherlock from his mission._

_The ensuing silence drags on long enough that Sherlock has to open his eyes again to look at his brother. Mycroft's expression is hard to read, but Sherlock recognizes a softness in those eyes that he can't remember seeing since his childhood. The plane lifts off from the ground and speeds up into the air as the two brothers stare at one another._

_At last, Mycroft speaks._

_"He's very upset, naturally. There's not much difference from what you saw this morning." Mycroft pauses. "He may never recover from this."_

_"I'd better make things quick, then," Sherlock replies. He'd meant for that to come out light, but thanks to the state he's in, he only manages to sound weary._

_"That's the only thing I can tell you," says Mycroft. "No more updates, we agreed --"_

_"Yes," says Sherlock in acquiescence._

_"Even if you ask, I won't tell you. Not until your task is complete."_

_Sherlock grunts, now too tired to even form words.  
_

_"We'll need to clean you up as soon as we land," is the last thing he hears Mycroft say before he drifts off._

* * *

 

_Mycroft is true to his word. As soon as they land in Capetown, they're escorted to the hotel that Sherlock will be calling home for the next several weeks. He showers and changes clothes while Mycroft makes a series of phone calls (all in different languages). Then the two brothers seat themselves around the small dining table and tuck into the meal that Mycroft had ordered during Sherlock's shower. Sherlock can't stop himself from practically inhaling the food._

_"You'll make yourself sick," Mycroft scolds. He's eating his own portion with the precision of a man disarming an atom bomb._

_"You're not our mother," says Sherlock through a heavy mouthful._

_"Speaking of which," Mycroft says, expertly dodging Sherlock's jibe, "Mummy is refusing to go to the funeral. That's going to look suspicious."_

_"Best to keep both of them away anyway," says Sherlock. "Tell people they were too stricken and wanted to grieve privately. They're terrible liars."_

_"I agree," says Mycroft with a nod. "They've chosen to spend some time at the cottage in Keswick, and aren't accepting any communication for the next month."_

_"What about you?" Sherlock asks. "Got my eulogy prepared?"_

_"I have been informed that my presence at the services will be entirely unwelcome," says Mycroft, "and potentially met with lethal force if I choose to ignore that request. The entirety of Scotland Yard has received the same message, I believe."_

_Sherlock smirks. Typical John, defending his honor beyond the afterlife._

_Mycroft reaches into his briefcase and withdraws several files._

_"Now that you're situated," he says, his tone suddenly icy and businesslike, "we have many things to discuss."_

* * *

 

_Sherlock's first assignment is very simple: lie low. He is given a new identity as an American businessman looking for contacts in South Africa. He's not actually meant to be successful in that endeavor -- as soon as the press surrounding his death has died down in London, he'll be off to Tibet for his first real assignment._

_Part of Moriarty's web_  does  _extend here; Sherlock will be returning in less than a year if everything goes according to plan to take out the operatives here. For now, he occupies himself by getting acquainted with the landscape and the locals._

 _He misses John, a fact that he'd accounted for when he and Mycroft had hatched this plan. But  he hadn't anticipated it hurting_ this damn much _. Every fiber of his being aches to turn back -- to return to John, or at least phone Mycroft and have John brought to him. He wants nothing more than for John to be here with him, for them to be plotting their next moves together._

_That can't happen though. Sherlock knows it. He won't risk John's life like that._

_So when he's given the all clear to move off from Africa, he goes, wishing the plane taking him to the monastery in the Himalayas was taking him home to his doctor._

* * *

 

_He's successful in Tibet, then again in Singapore and Hong Kong, bringing down three separate smuggling rings in a matter of weeks. He helps to overthrow a dictatorship in a small African country as well, and when that plot too passes without a hiccup, Sherlock begins to hope he might complete his mission and return home ahead of schedule._

_Weeks turn into months. He finds success in Capetown, India, Germany, Madrid -- everywhere he goes. He grows more and more confident with each passing day that he'll return to John before the anniversary of his death._

_Then he sets his sights on Serbia._

* * *

 

_He should have expected that the Serbians would have seen him coming. Word would eventually get around that someone was taking down Moriarty's web string by string. He's taken from his hostel bed during the middle of the night, blindfolded, and bound with tight ropes before being tossed into the boot of a car. He tries to memorize where he's going by the feel of the car turning, but the geography is still unfamiliar to him and the driver seems to be attempting to throw him off by adding random sharp turns every few miles._

_As soon as the car screeches to a halt, the car boot pops open, and before Sherlock has a chance to get his bearings he's knocked out by a sharp blow to his head._

* * *

 

_When he comes to, he's in a darkened cell. There's a few blankets piled in the corner where he's lying -- and along the opposite wall is a metal bucket. Sherlock doesn't have to use much deductive prowess to figure out what that's supposed to be for._

_There's a single barred window on one of the walls, opposite a very heavy-looking iron door. It's high off the floor, and moonlight is now streaming through. It's too small for anyone to crawl through, especially six feet of lanky consulting detective, so he rules it out as a possible escape route._

_The walls are bare and made of smooth stone, too smooth to climb even if the window were plausible. There are no visible gratings or weak points in the floor, either._

_Conclusion: escape from this room is impossible. Sherlock will have to wait for his captors to take him outside, or for Mycroft's team to come and rescue him._

_He curls up in the corner with one of the scratchy blankets, and begins to wait._

* * *

 

_For several days, his captors don't seem to have any interest in him at all. Once a day, they push food and water through the door, and Sherlock can sometimes hear them speaking in low voices out in the hall. He wishes he'd studied the language more before coming here._

_After several nights, he realizes they're not planning on emptying his waste bucket. He tries to use it as sparingly as he can to keep the smell to a minimum._

_He finds a chipped off bit of rock underneath one of the blankets he'd been given. He thinks about whittling it into a makeshift knife, but the rock is too brittle. He uses it instead to scratch tick marks onto the floor to track how long he's been kept here. He's actually a bit pleased when he reaches the two week mark. He's missed his check-in with Mycroft by a few days now -- that will prompt an investigation. He'll have people coming to collect Sherlock very soon._

* * *

  _He's awoken on the morning of his fifteenth day in captivity to the bucket of his own excrement being dumped directly onto his head. He tries to roll away, gagging, but two additional sets of arms hold him in place as the initial attacker empties the bucket on Sherlock's face. He clenches his mouth and eyes shut, holding his breath even as bile begins to burn the back of his throat, threatening to make him cough._

_As soon as the bucket is empty, the two men who have been holding Sherlock down yank him up to standing. The third man -- who is large and balding stares at Sherlock coldly. He barks in Serbian, "Walk. Walk," and Sherlock knows the language well enough to understand that command._

_He struggles for just a moment, trying to break free from the two men, and he's rewarded with a knee in his stomach._

_"Don't fight," the leader says, "just come."_

_Sherlock complies. He's wheezing, both from the blow and from the smell of his own filth, which is now dripping from his hair and seeping into the fabric of his shirt. The men steer him down a dark corridor to a room, larger than the one he's been kept in, that has a chair. He's forced to sit in it, and then each of his hands are tied to the legs. The two handlers exit then, leaving only the leader. Sherlock looks around the room and sees a forth man -- older, sitting in a chair along the opposite wall. He sniffs once._

_"This man is filthy," he says. "Wash him._

_There's a hose attached to a spigot on the wall; Sherlock realizes what's about to happen as the first man moves towards it._

_"No," he says in Serbian. There's no point trying to break his bonds, so he has to resort to begging. "No, please --"_

_His cries are silenced a moment later when the hose is turned on and sprayed directly into his face. The shock of the cold spray against his skin makes him gasp, and then he's choking, taking in lungfuls of water with each splutter. He jerks violently in the chair, ropes cutting into his arms. Somehow, he doesn't topple over -- likely the chair's been bolted to the floor._

_Sherlock hears, over the sound of the rushing water, the older man shout something. Immediately, the water ceases and Sherlock's left gasping for breath, his hair dripping into his face. While the bald man rolls the hose up, the older man stands and walks towards Sherlock._

_"I will ask you questions," he says, "and you will answer. If you do not answer, I will hurt you."_

Typical _, Sherlock thinks. Why do terrorists always have to be so predictable?_

_"What is your name?" the man demands._

_"Jovan," Sherlock replies immediately, giving his alias. He takes a moment to pride himself -- though his grasp of the language is still tenuous, his accent is flawless._

_Except the man doesn't buy it. He nods over Sherlock's shoulder -- Sherlock realizes a moment too late that he hasn't been tracking the bald man. He hears the crack of the whip before he feels it -- the sensation is amplified tenfold because of his wet back. Pain erupts between his shoulders and spreads out through his entire body. His teeth clench, but he doesn't scream, only gasps._

_"If you lie," says the old man, "I will hurt you. What is your name?"_

_"Jovan," Sherlock repeats._

_He's whipped again. His skin breaks this time._

_"Again," says the old man. "What is your name?"_

_"Jovan."_

_They repeat this over and over -- Sherlock feels hot blood mixing with the cool water droplets on his back. Every time he's asked for his name, he repeats, "Jovan." The old man begins to lose his patience -- his brow furrows in frustration._

_"Enough," he says, and he raises his hand to stop the other man from raising the whip again. "He is stubborn. We will get nothing from him today. He needs more time."_

_The bald man nods once, and shouts to the guards outside the door. They re-enter the room and untie Sherlock's hands -- he thinks momentarily about fighting back, but his shoulders are shaking too hard and his mind is numb from the pain. He doesn't realize until this moment that he's been muttering under his breath, over and over, "Jovan... Jovan..."_

_The guards take him back to his cell and throw him in. He lands on his back and screams as white-hot pain shoots through his spine. As soon as he hears the lock click behind the guards, he crawls to the corner and begins sobbing. As he lies there, curled in on himself muttering, "Jovan... Jovan..." his whispers turn to soft pleas of, "John... John..."_

_John will not come to rescue him. John thinks he's dead. John hates him._

_With this thought spinning through his head, Sherlock falls into an uneasy sleep._

* * *

  _Every few days, he's brought back into the interrogation room. He never reveals any information, and for that he's punished. They whip him, burn his body with the tips of white-hot crowbars, and spray water in his face until he's sure he's drowning. But his resolve never waivers. He retreats into his mind palace for these sessions -- to memories of John at Baker Street... of laughter, quiet Bond nights, and arguments over exploding body parts in the microwave. Sherlock thinks that if he ever returns, he'll never put his experiments in the kitchen ever again. He'll do whatever John wants, if only he makes it out of this alive._

_Weeks turn into months... Sherlock stops keeping tick marks on the floor after the second month hits. If Mycroft knew where he was, he would have been rescued by now. He loses hope._

_Then one day, the compound where he's being kept comes under attack. He's not sure how he does it -- everything's a blur and his body is in so much agony that he can't think straight -- but he manages to escape. He steals a uniform while the guards are distracted, and slips out into the night air. The sounds of gunshots ring out behind him -- there are men shouting to one another as he runs. He can't help it -- he laughs manically as the wind hits his face and combs through his matted hair. He's free._

* * *

 

_Once he's back in town, he finds his Serbian contact and sends a message off to Mycroft. He's provided with a shower, a full meal, and fresh clothes while he waits for the response. He's preparing for sleep when his associate comes to him with a laptop, set up for video call. Mycroft is on the other end._

_"Your alive," the elder Holmes remarks, seeming indifferent._

 

_Sherlock welcomes the sound of his voice and the sight of his brother's face nonetheless._

_"Yes," he croaks. His voice is raw._

_Mycroft takes in his appearance and something in his expression softens._

_"You've been tortured," he says._

_"Excessively," Sherlock agrees._

_"Do you know who captured you?"_

_"I have an idea," says Sherlock, "no hard evidence to support it." The question that has been niggling at the back of his mind since he was first captured surfaces. "Why didn't you find me?"_

_"We were unable to trace you," says Mycroft. "For a while, we assumed you'd been killed. Though the ground operatives may be dim, their intelligence officials are some of the most sophisticated we've ever seen."_

_"No doubt thanks to Moriarty," says Sherlock._

_"No doubt," Mycroft agrees._

_"They were attacked tonight," Sherlock tells him, "that's how I was able to escape. I thought you might have orchestrated it."_

_"I would have, if I'd known you were there," says Mycroft. "As it was, my people were tracking down a lead in the south country -- that's where they'd led us to believe you had last been seen. But the Serbian group has more ties than we initially thought. It was fairly easy for them to pass us the wrong information."_

_"You know what that means, though --" says Sherlock._

_"Yes," says Mycroft, "we've found the center of the web."_

* * *

_Sherlock doesn't like the next phase of the plan when Mycroft first presents it to him. They want him to infiltrate the base where he'd been kept and collect intel on the operation. He doesn't want to be captured again -- if they recognize him, they'll most certainly kill him. But Mycroft insists that things will be different this time around -- they know where Sherlock will be if he gets caught. They will be able to rescue him if the need arises._

_He is caught -- trips the alarm as soon as he passes onto the base. He tries to make a break, tries to flee back to the village, but the Serbians surround him in the middle of the forest, shooting at him. A bullet grazes his left thigh and takes him down -- it's not a serious wound, but it's enough to cause him pain. He's surrounded in seconds by men with their guns raised._

_They don't bother with the cell this time. He's taken immediately to the interrogation chamber. The bald man he recognizes from before his waiting with a crowbar. The old man sits in the chair -- Sherlock can't see his face, but he recognizes the slump of his shoulders._

_He's interrogated for hours and beaten repeatedly until he feels as if he will pass out at any moment. He's exhausted, but the man with the crowbar refuses to let him sleep._

_"You broke in here for a reason," the man says to him in Serbian. "Just tell us why and you can sleep."_

_He raises the crowbar to strike again, and Sherlock remembers something he heard in the village. The words tumble from his mouth before he has a chance to think them through._

_The man hesitates, crowbar still raised._

_"What?" he barks. He yanks Sherlock's head up and bends down to listen to what Sherlock is muttering._

_"Well?" the old man asks from the chair. There's something off about his voice. "What did he say?"_

_"He says I used to work in the navy, where I had an unhappy love affair."_

_"What?" the old man says._

_Sherlock continues muttering, very quickly._

_"...that the electricity isn't working in my bathroom; and that my wife is sleeping with our next door neighbor!" He drops Sherlock's head._

_"And --" Sherlock mumbles._

_"And?" The man jerks his head up again. "The coffin maker. And? And? If I go home now, I'll catch them at it! I knew it! I_ knew  _there was something going on!"_

_He drops the crowbar and runs from the room. The old man in the chair shifts._

_"So, my friend," he says. Sherlock picks up on the funny quality of his voice again. His accent is slightly muddled. "Now it's just you and me. You have no idea the trouble it took to find you."_

_He stands and approaches Sherlock slowly. Sherlock braces himself for the blow. The man leans down to whisper in his ear._

_"Listen to me," he says in English. The breath whooshes from Sherlock's body as he realizes who the voice belongs to. It's Mycroft. "There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear."_

_Mycroft straightens up._

_"Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes."_

_Sherlock smiles. Outside he hears Mycroft's men storming the compound._

_He's going home. He's going back to John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. That chapter was almost twice as long as my average for this story. Apologies for all the violence... we all knew Sherlock wasn't just vacationing on the beach while he was away.


	8. A.G.R.A.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary pays Sherlock a visit.

"You told John all of this?"

Dr. Younce's question surprises him. He's just finished recounting the story of his exile to her, and if he's honest, he doesn't know how he had expected her to react. With sympathy, perhaps. Ask him how those horrors made him  _feel_. Ridiculous sentimental rubbish.

But no. She's gone and made it about  _John_ again.

"You're deluding yourself if you think this isn't about John," she says, and he realizes he's spouted all of these grievances aloud.

"I'm not sure what you mean," he says, tamping down the irritation that bubbles up inside him. "I told John the story after our last session."

"I'm guessing you omitted several major points," Dr. Younce replies knowingly.

"Such as?" Sherlock presses. God, is this what John means when he talks about the "we-both-know-what's-really-going-on-here" look? It  _is_ annoying.

 "Interesting choice for an alias," says Dr. Younce, glancing down at her notes. " _Jovan_."

Sherlock tenses in his chair. She'd picked up on that.

"I'm guessing John didn't get it?" She's fixing him with a very pointed, icy stare.

"No," Sherlock says quietly, almost in a whisper.

"I could sit her and tell you exactly why I think you chose to use the Slavic version of John's name as your identity while you were away, but I think it'll benefit us both for you to do the explaining."

She's good at her job, Sherlock concedes. He hates her for it.

"There was always a chance I would be captured," Sherlock says. "In that event, I had to be prepared to endure anything. Under duress, no one can be trusted to keep the innermost workings of their mind hidden."

"And if you're going to have your deepest secrets extracted from you anyway, why not keep them at the forefront of your mind?" Dr. Younce finishes.

"Precisely."

Dr. Younce leans in expectantly. "And what is that secret, Mr. Holmes?"

He isn't planning on answering, but it's just as well that the timer goes off then. It makes things less awkward. Dr. Younce glances at the beeping device on her desk with a wry smirk.

"Saved by the bell," she says, and then she stands up to turn it off. "You've made excellent progress today, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Don't be like that," says Dr. Younce. She knows how he's reacted even though her back is still turned. "You may not see the value in these sessions, not yet. But trust me when I tell you that you're closer today than you were after our last meeting."

 Sherlock doesn't reply, he only stands, throws his coat over his arm, and exits wordlessly.

* * *

 Dr. Younce had been right: he hadn't told John everything. He'd only given the basic overview: where he'd gone, which foes he'd thwarted, how he'd outsmarted criminal after criminal. John had laughed, gasped, and looked amazed in all the right places. He was a wonderful audience member, as always.

When Sherlock had gotten around to his capture and imprisonment in Serbia, John had leaned forward in his chair, his body practically thrumming with tension. Sherlock had glossed over the particularly gruesome details of the torture sessions and, as Dr. Younce had indicated , he did not mention what alias he had gone by. He didn't talk about how much he'd missed John, or the fact that his memories of John had kept him sane during those long nights in his cell when he'd wished for nothing except infection or the elements to claim him.

 When he'd dictated his escape and Mycroft's subsequent plan to throw him back into the Serbian base, John had sworn loudly.

"Your fucking  _brother_!" he'd exclaimed. "I will  _kill_ him the next time I see him!"

It had taken Sherlock about fifteen minutes to convince John that that was a bad idea... made especially difficult considering that Sherlock himself was not feeling particularly grateful towards Mycroft just then. When John had been calmed, Sherlock finished his story, and the two had sat in silence for several minutes.

 Then John had said, "More tea?" and rushed off to the kitchen without waiting for Sherlock to respond. Sherlock had stared at the half-full pot on the table before him, his thoughts a muddle as he listened to John tinkering around in the next room.

* * *

 

When he arrives back at Baker Street, there's a visitor waiting for him, and it's one of the very last people he's expecting to see: Mary Watson.

"Hello, Sherlock," she says cordially.

She's sitting in  _John's_ chair, her arms wrapped beneath her bulging abdomen. Her tone is pleasant enough, but her gaze on Sherlock is too fixed, wary almost. Sherlock cannot help but find the irony in that -- that  _Mary_ should be afraid of  _him_.

"Mary," says Sherlock in greeting as he hangs up his coat and scarf. "Surprise seeing you here --" he glances around the flat, searching for signs of --

"John's not with me," Mary informs him. "I sent him out shopping -- there's some last minute things we've still got to get for the little one." She rubs her belly fondly.

Sherlock's heart sinks a bit as he takes his chair opposite Mary. "Can I get you anything?" he offers, more because he knows it's the polite thing to do than he actually wants to provide anything for her.

"That's alright, I don't plan on staying long," says Mary. She still sounds perfectly harmless, but Sherlock feels the hairs on his neck stand up.

"Why have you come?" Sherlock demands, dropping all pretense of playing the hospitable host.

 "To make amends," says Mary.

Sherlock lets out a small huff of laughter.

"I'm serious, Sherlock," says Mary. "I'm willing to set aside everything that's happened between us, forgive old grievances --"

" _You're_ willing to forgive  _me_?" Sherlock seethes.

"For throwing a wrench in my marriage, yes," says Mary coldly.

"You don't think you did that yourself," says Sherlock. "I'm not the one who lied to John."

"No?" Mary cocks her head to one side. "Have you told him why you're doing this? Why you're helping Harry? Because everyone can see why  _except_ John --"

"You want to sit here and expose each other's secrets --" Sherlock interjects, bypassing the accusation, "--fine. Does John know the baby may not be his? Or shall I inform him of that betrayal as well?"

Mary stiffens in her chair, and her arms tighten further around her bump.

"How did you --?"

"You really think I wouldn't notice how hard you worked to make John and I take the Bloody Guardsman case?"

"It's John's," she says defensively. "I checked.

"Oh, but the fact that the parentage was even in question says wonders, don't you think?"

Mary frowns.

"It doesn't matter, you have no proof."

"True," Sherlock admits.

"Why didn't you tell John?" Mary asks, and she leans forward. "And while we're at it, why did you tell John that I saved your life -- that I phoned the ambulance, failed to make a kill shot, all that. Why?"

"You're wishing I hadn't?" says Sherlock; he's confused now.

"No," says Mary quickly. "I'm glad you did -- but if you'd told the truth, things would've been over between John and I. You would've won.

Sherlock frowns.

"This isn't a competition," he says.

Mary chuckles.

"Like hell it isn't. So why did you lie for me?"

Sherlock steeples his hands together and presses his fingertips to his chin, considering.

"I suppose --" he pauses, then begins again. "You saved John. You were there for him when I couldn't be... when I'd betrayed him. I thought I'd return the favor."

Mary's eyes are darting across his face, taking in his expression and posture, searching him. After a moment, she seems satisfied with his answer because she nods.

 "I guess a thank you is in order," she remarks smugly. Sherlock feels beads of loathing pooling heavily in his gut. He doesn't respond. Mary's smirk diminishes as she continues to observe his impassive expression. Then she rises. "I'd better be off before John gets home," she says. "I think we've finished everything here."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees.

Mrs. Hudson shuffles in just as Mary's wrapping her scarf round her neck.

"Mary dear!" she proclaims. "My, look at you! You're nearly ready to pop!"

"Certainly feels that way," Mary sighs, rubbing her middle. Sherlock wants to gag.

"You won't stay for tea? I was just about to make some --"

"Mary was just leaving," says Sherlock quickly. Mrs. Hudson shoots him one of her 'don't-be-so-impolite' looks.

"Sherlock --" she begins.

"It's fine, he's right," says Mary. "I'm off out."

She disappears and Mrs. Hudson calls after her, "Be careful on your way home, dear!" She turns and fully marches into the sitting room to start her daily tidying. "Don't know what she's thinking, wandering around central London in her condition --"

"Mrs. Hudson," says Sherlock suddenly enough so to make the woman in question jump.

"Oh, goodness, what is it, Sherlock?"

"Do you still have the memory stick that I gave you?"

"The what, dear?"

"The memory stick -- small silver thing with letters on it -- I told you to keep it safe for me a few months ago --"

 "I'll have to go and check --"

"No time like the present!" Sherlock exclaims. He leaps from his seat to usher Mrs. Hudson down the stairs; she gives an indignant squawk in protest, but nonetheless goes. As soon as she's down the landing, Sherlock turns and observes the room carefully. Nothing looks out of place -- any more than usual that is. His eyes sweep over the sitting room, taking in every notebook and newspaper clipping, every dirty dish and every row of dust. If Mary's given the place a search, she's certainly done a good job of hiding it.

He goes to the desk after a moment and looks in the top drawer, where he keeps mementos from past cases. Irene Adler's phone is here, along with the diamond cuff links he'd been given following the Reichenbach case. There's a secret compartment at the bottom -- if Mary is as well trained as he believes, she will have had no trouble finding it. Sure enough, he finds nothing when he pops open the drawer. He smiles when he realizes that his decoy has been taken.

"Found it," says Mrs. Hudson upon her return. "You're lucky I remembered just the place that I put it -- I don't know what you mean by giving me things to keep safe and then forgetting about them for months at a time -- what do you need it for anyway?"

"I have absolutely no idea," says Sherlock. "But it seems a friend has been asking for it." 


	9. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sets up a watch on Mary. His latest session with Dr. Younce proves to be particularly difficult.

Sherlock phones Mycroft as soon as Mrs. Hudson passes over the memory stick. When his brother arrives, he's sitting by the fire, twirling it between his fingers. The elder Holmes eyes him skeptically.

"Not often I receive calls from  _you_ needing help on a case," he says.

"Then you can assume that this is a matter of great urgency," Sherlock returns.

He tosses the memory stick to Mycroft, who only just manages to catch it with the hand not holding his brolly. "I need that analyzed."

"You can manage that yourself, surely," says Mycroft as he turns the drive over in his hand.

"Might have all sorts of encrypted files, and I have to admit, your people are a lot quicker than I when it comes to that sort of thing."

"Hmm." Mycroft is still staring at the drive. Then the realization seems to hit him. "These are Mary Watson's files," he says.

"Technically, they're A.G.R.A.'s --"

"John destroyed this."

"I made doubles," says Sherlock. "Two of them -- one for John to keep, and one to hide as a decoy in case Mary came looking for it, which she's just done."

Mycroft raises his eyebrows in astonishment, though it only lasts for half a second.

"What if John had looked at the fake?" he asks.

"I knew he wouldn't," says Sherlock. "I know John."

Mycroft doesn't question this further.

"You didn't want to look into this before?"

"It was... tempting..." Sherlock admits. "I thought I should give John and Mary the chance to work it out."

"Yet you didn't trust her completely," Mycroft notes.

"I set bait and waited to see if she would take it," says Sherlock. He's beginning to get annoyed at Mycroft's implications; Why does he have to ask so many bloody questions? "If she really has nothing to hide, why would she bother coming back for it?"

"I agree with you," says Mycroft. He's being complacent now, as if Sherlock is throwing a fit and needs to be assuaged. This bothers Sherlock more. Mycroft continues. "The timing of all this is rather inconvenient, you know. I can't help but wonder at your motives --"

"I'm  _trying_ to protect John!" Sherlock snaps. "Isn't that motive enough?"

"Protect him, or win him back? Those are very different things --"

"Are you going to help me or not? I'm finding out what's on that drive one way or another, Mycroft. It's up to you whether the job is done by your team of so-called professionals or my own network."

It's an empty threat -- as good as his homeless network is, they simply don't have access to the kinds of resources that are required for this case. But if Sherlock knows his brother, he'll jump at the chance to poke into Sherlock's affairs, especially if he'd be on the front line for receiving information.

"Very well," says Mycroft with a resigned sigh. "I'll have it completely looked through by the end of the week."

"Thank you," Sherlock replies, and as Mycroft starts to leave, he adds, "You're not as good of a liar as you think. If you try to hide something from me, I'll know."

Rather than respond to that, Mycroft quips snidely, "I do hope therapy is going well for you."

He's out of the door before one of Sherlock's books has a chance to hit him in the head.

* * *

 

He makes arrangements to meet with Harry again, mostly because she's his sure-fire way of keeping tabs on John without Mary finding out. They go for coffee again before Sherlock's appointment. Harry is beginning to look frail -- her temporary health boost following her discharge is waning. The circles under her eyes are darker, and she's nearly as thin as she was in the hospital bed. Despite this, she's still got a lovely sparkle in her eye -- a trait that Sherlock has come to associate with John.

"Are we going to make this a regular thing?" Harry asks when they've both got their drinks and have taken their seats. "People might talk."

"Doubtful," says Sherlock. "You've been out for nearly two decades."

"All the more reason to cause a scandal," says Harry. She eyes Sherlock. "So what do you need from me?"

"A friendly chat, nothing more --"

"Bollocks," says Harry. "I'm dying, I'm learning not to beat around the bush about things. You don't seem the type to ring people up for 'friendly' chats. What do you need?"

Sherlock hesitates... he's not sure how much information his appropriate to share with Harry, especially when he might be compromising her safety by confiding in her.

"I need someone to keep an eye on John --"

"You mean Mary."

Sherlock starts. Harry looks pleased with herself.

"I'm not an idiot, whatever John might tell you," she says. "There's something going on between the two of them... something I don't like. The day they were fighting in the hospital -- I mean, I only overheard bits and pieces -- what they were saying gave me a funny feeling --"

"Please, Harry," Sherlock interrupts, "trust me when I say that it's vital to your own safety that you not inquire into this."

Harry's eyes narrow.

"John's my brother," she says.

"And you're his sister. I'm already trying to save your life -- I don't need to worry about protecting it as well."

"You can't tell me anything?"

"Only that Mary needs to be watched."

"What kind of information do you need?"

"Tell me if she does anything out of the ordinary -- if she goes anywhere for an extended period of time, or if John mentions that she's acting strangely --"

"--call you straight away," Harry finishes.

"I would appreciate it," says Sherlock sincerely.

Harry smiles dryly and sips her tea. "I knew Johnny was getting into trouble when he started living with you.

 

 

* * *

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Younce greets him as he steps through the office door.

Sherlock hums a curt reply, still wishing he could be anywhere else in the world. He grudgingly takes his usual seat opposite Dr. Younce, who's ready with her notepad in hand. She's got a file folder that's stuffed full of papers, too. Sherlock frowns when he sees this -- it's a new addition, and he's got a foreboding feeling about it.

"What's that?" he can't help but ask.

"Your file," says Dr. Younce. "It's quite extensive --" she opens it and begins flipping through the pages. "Speech therapy when you were young -- looks as if you didn't start talking until you were five years old. That's rather unusual... then we have notes from various psychologists during your later childhood and adolescence -- the death of your dog was rather shocking, apparently... and you were bullied a lot in school. Must have been hard. Things quiet down for a few years until --" she stops on a page that's been tagged with a bright green flag -- "July 17, 2003, when you were treated for heroin overdose. Your first one." She closes the folder and peers over at Sherlock. "When you were sent to rehab, you informed your doctors that your first hit was ten years earlier. Shall we talk about what happened then?"

"Why?" Sherlock snarls, his heart pounding. "You've got all the notes there -- you already know."

Dr. Younce shrugs. "Assume I don't."

"My eldest brother, Sherrinford Holmes, was killed by an IED in the first Gulf War."

Dr. Younce nods. "That must have been difficult."

"Excruciatingly so."

"And the drugs --?"

"Helped me forget. End of story. Why are we bringing this up?"

"Do you believe there's any connection between your brother's death and your friendship with Dr. Watson?"

Sherlock practically growls his reply.

"What the  _hell_ is that supposed to mean?"

"Your brother --" Dr. Younce responds, re-opening the folder, " _Dr._ Sherrinford Holmes, Captain of the RAMC, deployed to Afghanistan in November of 1993 -- he only served there for six weeks before he was killed on Christmas Eve -- forgive me if I see several connections between your brother and Dr. Watson --"

"You have  _no_ right --"

"You're my  _patient,_ Mr. Holmes, I have every right to your history -- Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock has bolted from his chair, charging for the door and ignoring Dr. Younce's cries. He tears past several shocked patients in the waiting room as he charges for the street. A black car is waiting just outside -- he should have known Mycroft would keep someone watching his sessions. As he barrels on down the street, the car pulls away, no doubt to report that he's just left his session early.

The walk home passes in a blur -- he's too agitated to bother with a cab or public transportation. He can only think of getting home, to Baker Street. The door is mercifully unlocked when he arrives -- he doesn't think he can bother with keys at the moment. Mrs. Hudson is cleaning in the entryway. She looks shocked to see him.

"Sherlock, dear, you gave me a fright! I thought you were at your session -- Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignores her and leaps up the stairs, bent on making it to his room before he begins breaking down. He slams his bedroom door shut and flings himself onto the bed without bothering to remove his outerwear or shoes. Face buried firmly in the pillow, Sherlock screams. He screams and screams until his throat is raw and he can't make a sound. The pillow has grown wet where his eyes have leaked tears into the fabric -- Sherlock heaves in a great, shuddering breath, feeling exhausted. There's a soft knock on the door.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson's voice coos softly. When he doesn't respond, she creaks the door open. "Oh, Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn't look up, but he feels the bed dip slightly as Mrs. Hudson sits beside him. The instant he feels her small hand between his shoulder blades, he begins to sob -- great shuddering cries that leave his stomach hurting and his lungs screaming for air. Mrs. Hudson -- bless her -- leaves one hand rubbing his back and brings the other to pet his hair. She doesn't say a word.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SINCERE APOLOGIES FOR THIS LATE UPDATE
> 
> IN MY DEFENSE: I went to London in January. That was awesome -- and then immediately after I began my final semester of college. So yeah... life's been busy.
> 
> I wanted to get this up to assure you that I'm still writing -- it's pretty short compared to other installments, and pretty angsty... but well, who doesn't love sad Sherlock?
> 
> I promise to update more regularly, and respond to comments.


	10. Admission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All it takes is one momentary lapse of judgement...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were a couple of concerns raised after the end of the last chapter -- I thought I'd just address them openly.
> 
> There won't be any incest in this story. None. That's not my thing.
> 
> Dr. Younce isn't trying to bully Sherlock -- she's taking a rather aggressive and unorthodox approach, yes, but she is not trying to "normalize" Sherlock or get him to see the light or come to Jesus or what have you. That's all I shall say on the matter for now -- I hope the next couple of chapters will become clear.
> 
> In terms of angst... yeah, welp... there's more of that on the way this chapter. Also note upped rating and new tags.

Sherlock awakes to the sound of loud voices shouting outside in the sitting room. He can't make out what the voices are saying -- both are distinctly male and somehow familiar -- and occasionally broken by the shrill chirping that he associates with Mrs. Hudson. "You'll wake him!" he hears her scold, but the other voices don't pay her any attention.

He blinks several times and turns over. He's not wearing the same clothes as before -- distantly, he remembers Mrs. Hudson coaxing him into a set of pajamas. The woman is a saint, he muses as he tries to pick out what the angry voices are saying.

One of them, he realizes quickly, is Mycroft.

"--quite sure you have the noblest of intentions,  _Doctor_ , but as you have been informed, this is a family matter --"

"Bollocks, Mycroft!" John's voice snarls. "You haven't been a proper brother to him in years, if ever! Who is it that's been bandaging him up for the last five years? Who is it that found him in that drug den?"

"-- _three_ years, John. Let us not forget that you presumed Sherlock dead for two of them --"

"And you did a  _fine_ job taking care of him while he was away! How long did you know he was in that prison, Mycroft? How long did you stand by watching them cut open his back --"

There is a loud crash -- Mrs. Hudson shrieks. Sherlock staggers to his feet and calls out, "John?" His voice is barely more than a croak, but it's enough to make the activity outside halt. Sherlock crosses to the door, which is slightly ajar, and peers out across the kitchen. Mycroft and John are frozen in the archway between the kitchen and the living room. It seems Mycroft has just knocked over a stack of books on the mantel with his brolly -- Mrs. Hudson is standing by the fridge, her wide eyes darting between Sherlock's room and the two other men.

Mycroft is the first to speak. His voice is calm, composed... as if he hadn't just spent the last five minutes engaged in a screaming match with the good doctor.

"Good evening, brother," he says. "How was your session today?"

"Mycroft --" John says in a low, dangerous voice.

"Doctor-Patient confidentiality means as little to you now as it did twenty years ago, I see," Sherlock interjects.

"Dr. Younce has access to your medical records, Sherlock, I don't understand how you think --"

"I haven't accused you of anything, Mycroft. If you have a guilty conscience, that's not my problem."

Mycroft's mouth snaps shut and his lips are drawn into a tight, thin line for a brief moment before he regains his composure.

"I came to check on you, Sherlock. I imagine today's session was rather difficult for you -- it seems John got here before me --"

"I phoned him," Mrs. Hudson announces proudly.

"--and seems to be under the impression that I've brought this black mood upon you. Since this regards a personal matter, I was hoping you would consult me before you give John any information."

"I'm sure you would prefer that, Mycroft," says Sherlock quietly. He and Mycroft share a long, brooding look while John and Mrs. Hudson look on between them.

"Sherlock doesn't have to tell me anything he doesn't want to," says John, though he's speaking more to Sherlock than Mycroft now. "I thought he might need a friend right now -- that's why I came --"

Sherlock is overwhelmed suddenly with gratitude towards the doctor. His chest feels constricted as he glances over at John briefly. "Thank you," he says quietly. John smiles at him -- a small smile, one that just barely grazes the corner of his lips, but it warms Sherlock's core nonetheless. Mycroft clears his throat loudly.

"I must encourage you, Sherlock, to keep this matter quiet for the time being."

"Piss off, Mycroft."

Mycroft purses his lips again.

"Very well. I hope you feel better soon, brother dear."

Mrs. Hudson scrambles to the side as Mycroft brushes past her. John watches him go, venom in his gaze until they hear Mycroft's brolly click on the last step, then the door closing on the first floor below. Sherlock eyes John the entire time; he still hasn't moved past the door way. John turns his head to meet Sherlock's gaze, and his expression softens. Mrs. Hudson mutters something about needing to clean the moulding on the front step before she bustles off, leaving the two men alone.

"How are you?" John asks cautiously.

"Exhausted," Sherlock admits.

"Must be, if you'll say so." John frowns. "You should go back to sleep."

"Won't be able to."

"Go on -- lie down, I'll bring you a cup of tea in a moment."

Sherlock obeys -- he leaves the door open before crawling back under his duvet. It's still warm from his nap earlier; despite this, he shivers as he listens to John moving about in the kitchen. 

Ten minutes later, John pushes through the door with two (Sherlock notices immediately and is confused by the implication of such an action) mugs of steaming liquid.

"Thought I'd stay for a bit -- you shouldn't be alone after a day like today."

There's a slight question in his statement. He's obviously waiting for Sherlock to invite him to stay or request to be left alone. Sherlock chooses to respond with a question of his own.

"It's late -- won't Mary need you at home?"

"She understands. Besides, I've got the pager with me."

Something in his tone indicates to Sherlock that John's not telling the entire story, but he decides not to press the matter. In any case, he's glad to have John with him.

"Do you want to tell me what happened today?" John asks as he sets both mugs on Sherlock's bed side table. "You don't have to, I just thought --"

"No, it's fine," Sherlock says quickly. "Maybe later -- I'm tired --"

"Of course," says John. "Move over --"

Sherlock doesn't understand his request at first, but then John nudges him gently in the ribs. Sherlock turns over onto his stomach to allow John room to sit beside him on the bed. John kicks his shoes off and eases himself down -- his back resting on the headboard. Almost automatically, his left hand reaches out to rest on the top of Sherlock's head. After the briefest touch, however, he stops himself.

"Sorry," John says hurriedly, removing his hand, "dunno why I --"

"It's fine," says Sherlock.

John hesitates, then places his hand back on Sherlock's head. His fingers card through Sherlock's hair softly -- brushing it back from the detective's face.

"You should sleep," John tells him softly. "We can talk when you wake up."

"You'll still be here?" Sherlock asks. He doesn't want to drift off, not with John next to him, willing to openly display affection, but his eyes are closing despite himself.

"Of course," John assures him. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

He's said this part so softly, Sherlock thinks he must have imagined it. Perhaps John hadn't meant for him to hear... still, those words seem to echo in Sherlock's mind as unconsciousness slowly washes over him.

* * *

 

When he wakes again, the sky outside has grown dark. The room is illuminated by the soft glow of his bedside lamp. Sherlock shifts, his face nuzzling into something warm and firm -- John's thigh, he realizes. John is still beside him, his hand still stroking through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock sighs greatly -- and John's hand stills for a moment.

"Sherlock?" he mutters uncertainly.

"Sherrinford," Sherlock mumbles sleepily.

"Sorry?"

"Sherrinford Holmes," Sherlock says again. "Mycroft and my elder brother -- older than Mycroft by six years."

"There's another one of you?" John murmurs in amusement. "God help the Universe. Where is he? Why haven't I met him?"

"He's dead," says Sherlock as he rolls onto his back, away from the comforting warmth of John's lap. "Died when I was sixteen."

John freezes, apparently at a loss for words.

"Sherlock -- I'm sorry -- I -- how --?"

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked, craning his neck around to look at his alarm clock. "How long have I been asleep?"

"About an hour -- look, Sherlock --"

"He was deployed during the first Gulf War -- a doctor. His truck went over an IED, and there was an ambush waiting for them after that. He never stood a chance."

John swallows hard.

"You and Mycroft -- earlier you --"

"There was never any proof," Sherlock explains, "but Mycroft had begun working for the Secret Service a short while before Ford was deployed. After Ford died... well, none of the family were quite the same after that, but Mycroft changed. He wasn't always as cold as he seems now --"

 "You think he had something to do with Ford's death?"

"I think he could have stopped it, but chose not to."

"Coventry?"

"Exactly."

John nods. His brown furrows.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

"Don't be. This all happened long before we met."

"I know," says John, "but Christ -- that must've been hard."

Sherlock doesn't know how to respond, so he shrugs.

"Were you and Ford close?" John asks.

"Honestly, no," says Sherlock. "Ford was thirteen years older than I. He had already moved out by the time I'd started primary school. But I admired him greatly. He was nothing but good."

John nods.

"So today -- what, your therapist brought Ford up and you broke down?" When Sherlock frowns at him, John adds, "I realize that's a complete oversimplification, but I'm trying to understand."

"I --" Sherlock has to consider a while before explaining. "I think it was the shock more than anything. I hadn't heard Ford's name in a long time --"

 "Why did she think it was relevant?" John asks.

"I started using afterwards," says Sherlock quietly.

"Yeah, okay." Johns lips thin as he frowns -- the same way he always does when Sherlock's drug habit is mentioned. "But why would your therapist bring that up in this context? She's meant to make sure you're stable enough to donate an organ, not send you back on a heroin binge."

"I'm not --" Sherlock begins.

"I wasn't saying you would, I'm just trying to figure out what her angle is here. I don't see how it all connects --"

He trails off, obviously waiting for Sherlock to provide an answer. When Sherlock remains silent, his frown deepens.

"What are her qualifications?"

"Does it matter?" Sherlock sighs.

"It matters to me. You're my best friend, and you're giving your liver to my sister. This therapist is the only thing standing in the way of that right now." He pauses and glances down at Sherlock, who looks up to meet his stare. "More than that, Sherlock, I don't want you going through all this unnecessary mess for me --"

"It's nothing, John --" Sherlock starts.

"Shut up." John's voice has gone low and fierce -- he raises a finger to stop Sherlock's words as his eyes continue their intense stare. "It's  _not nothing_ , okay? You can't tell me it's nothing after everything you've gone though. Especially not after the way I've repaid you --"

"You haven't done anything," Sherlock assures him quickly. John shouldn't be feeling guilty, not in the slightest.

" _Exactly_ ," says John emphatically. The lower part of his jaw has begun to shake from the way he's been clenching it, and there's a slight tremble in his voice. "I've been a shit friend to you the last few months -- it's not fair -- not with everything you've done for me --"

"John," says Sherlock, and he finds himself pushing up into a sitting position so that he can be on equal ground with him for this part, "I made a vow."

Sherlock stares into John's deep, cobalt eyes for a long moment, attempting to communicate everything he feels through his expression. John shouldn't feel guilty _\--_ Sherlock would do _anything_ for him. He made such a promise on John's wedding day, and he intends to spend his life fulfilling that promise.

He can see John struggling with something -- there's some flicker of indecision swimming just beneath the surface of those cobalt eyes. Sherlock can't deduce what it is -- he can only will John to bloodydo or say _something,_ because Sherlock hates not knowing what will happen next. _  
_

He doesn't know what he was expecting John to do -- he certainly wasn't expecting John to lean forward and brutally crush his lips against Sherlock's.

Which is exactly what John  _does._

Sherlock freezes. He's at a complete loss -- never did be ever allow himself to conceive that John could possibly want him in this way. Desired it, certainly. Fantasized about it, most definitely. But never had he allowed himself to ever do something so desperate as  _hope._

Now it's happening -- John is kissing him and he doesn't know what to do. He isn't prepared -- he doesn't know where he should put his hands, whether he should open his mouth, or a million other options that seem to circulate through his brain all at once.

Then, a second later his decision is made for him when John begins to pull back, obviously thrown by Sherlock's trepidation. Sherlock feels a panicked sort of bark well up from his chest as he chases John's mouth with his own, determined to pull John back. John sighs, almost in a relieved way, and kisses Sherlock again. This time Sherlock opens his mouth, allowing John's tongue to slot in beside his own.

John reaches a hand up to Sherlock's chest and gently ushers him back onto the pillows. His mouth doesn't separate from Sherlock's, and the dark-haired man moans when John scrapes his teeth gently along Sherlock's lower lip. John repeats the action, illiciting the same deep rumble from Sherlock's chest. A second later, that moan becomes a gasp. John has just slotted his hips with Sherlock's and he's  _aroused_ \-- not fully hard yet, from what Sherlock can feel, but he's on his way to becoming so, and Sherlock is not far behind.

John moves his mouth from Sherlock's then, down to Sherlock's long pale neck where he gently scrapes his teeth along Sherlock's jugular, causing a shiver to travel down Sherlock's spine and settle in his groin. John moves lower, and locks his mouth over Sherlock's clavicle. At the same time, his left hand moves between their bodies to cup the hefty weight of Sherlock's erection. Sherlock pants heavily and moves one of his hands up to clutch at John's hair.

"God, Sherlock," Joan moans, and it's the most delicious sound Sherlock has ever heard, especially when accompanied by the sensation of John squeezing his prick firmly through his pajama trousers. Sherlock arches his back up into the touch; John strokes him again.

Sherlock wishes this could go on forever, but he's been emotionally out of sorts all day, and his body is thrumming with the need to relieve excess tension. That, coupled with the fact that he's never had a hand on his cock that wasn't his own before (and that it's  _John's_ hand expertly stroking him through the soft pajamas) and he's poised to shoot off within seconds. Just before he topples over the edge,  a loud beeping from John's pocket blares through the room. Both men stop -- their bodies frozen with their breath still coming in short gasps. John hovers over Sherlock for a moment, hand still cupping Sherlock's throbbing cock.

 _"Fuck!"_ he hisses as he rolls over, shoving his hand into his pocket to retrieve the offending device. The pager is still beeping and flashing a pale blue light; John flicks it off and reads the message on the screen. "Mary," he says without looking at Sherlock. His hair is toussled and there's a pink flush spreading from his cheeks to his collar. When Sherlock glances down to his denim-clad lap, he spies the incriminating bulge that he'd felt pressed against his leg only moments before. His own erection is still twitching between his legs.

"John --" he says, unable to keep the pleading note from his voice.

"She's having contractions, I have to go," says John hurriedly, still not meeting Sherlock's eye.

Sherlock _swallows_ around a lump in his throat and nods, which apparently is all the permission John needs to bolt from Sherlock's bed and out the door.

 _Well,_ Sherlock thinks as he hears John's footsteps on the stairs and the eventual front-door slam,  _if that wasn't just a colossal fuck-up._

 


End file.
